Of Kings & Crowns
by Mysterious Northerner
Summary: Waking up in Westeros was enough to make anyone cry. Me? I wasn't worried. I had a twenty first century education. All I needed to do was defeat Tywin Lannister, crush Balon Greyjoy, survive the invading Ice Faeries beyond the wall and try not to piss off the crazy Dragon Queen. How hard could it really be? SIRobb/Roslin, SIRobb/Dacey, SIRobb/Jeyne & SIRobb/Val, Jon/Ygritte
1. Chapter 1

**Of Kings & Crowns - Chapter One, Hell No!**

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 _ **Robb Stark, First of His Name**_ _(3/04 283 - 6/01 358AC), widely known in the south by his moniker 'the Young Wolf', was King in the North, of the Trident, and of the Rivers & the Hills from 299 to 358 and is credited as the founder of the independent Kingdom of the North & the Trident. He led the North to military supremacy during the War of the Eight Kings and in the subsequent chaos that followed, provided critical leadership during the dark days of the Winter War and helped to determine both the political and economical balance of power in Westeros. He was formally and posthumously given the name Robbert the Great by the Royal Moot in 359AC._

 _He is often regarded as one of the greatest military commanders of all time, with his use of innovative, often revolutionary and sometimes controversial tactics. His most notable military victory was the Battle of Karhold (301AC). With a superb military machine, daring tactics, bold leadership and an excellent intelligence corps, backed by an efficient government that could respond swiftly to major crisis', Robb Stark was able to change the course of Westerosi history forever. He died just under four months before his seventy sixth name day, however, shortly after the Battle of Summerhall (358AC)._

 _During his reign, his kingdom rose from the status of a provincial backwater (within the Seven Kingdoms) to one of the great powers of Westeros (alongside the Kingdom of the Reach, the Kingdom of the Hightower and the Greater Storm Kingdom) and a model of early modern era government. Some have called him the "father of modern warfare". Under his tutelage, the North and the Riverlands developed a number of excellent commanders, such as Ser Elmar Frey, who would go on to defeat and sack Lorath in the Great Eastern Wars and expand the boundaries and the power of the greater Northern Kingdom long after Robb Starks death in battle. Spoils of 'the Young Wolf's' enemies meant he became a successful book raider in Westeros, Winterfell's library rivaling that of the Oldtown Citadel by the time of his death._

 _Called "The Young Wolf" and "The King in the North", he made the North one of the great powers of Westeros in part by reforming the administrative structure of his kingdom. For example, he began regional registration of the population, so that the central government could more efficiently tax and conscript the people. Historian Jorgen Wulfdan argues that his achievements in the field of economic reform, trade, modernization, and the creation of the modern bureaucratic autocracy was as great as his exploits on the battlefields. His domestic reforms, which transformed a backward, underdeveloped economy and society, were in fact not only the foundations for his later victories in the Stormlands and Dorne, but also absolutely crucial in cementing the power, prestige and longevity of the Greater Northern Kingdom._

 **The Winds of Change** ,

 _by Chronicler Wilhelm Rivers_

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-oo00|00oo-

 _"All warfare is based on deception"_ , **Robb Stark 300AC,** Battle of Karhold 301AC

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 **299AC - An abandoned holdfast a short ways from Riverrun...**

People often try to romanticize the past. For what god awful reason, I know not. Often I suspect, because they feel nostalgic for a time and place that they themselves feel was simpler than the times they currently lived in. I was not one of those people. Nope. Not even slightly. As far as I was concerned, the past was dirty, it smelt something horrible and at that particular moment, it was loud, and growing noisier by the minute.

"The proper course is clear!" Lord Bracken declared, his thick arm slamming down on the arm of his chair with a meaty thud. "We should pledge our loyalties to King Renly and move south – to join our forces with his!"

Tytos Blackwood, seated three chairs down from his most hated of neighbours, and bedecked in the obnoxiously bright yellow armour of his house, with its raven-feathered cloak and all, bristled indignantly. As was to be expected of a Blackwood really. The history of the Riverlands, I suspect, is probably filled with lots of little moments where the Blackwoods would puff up in outrage whenever a Bracken dared to made a suggestion they disagreed with within earshot, or vice versa really. Theirs was an old feud after all, and a deep one.

"Like seven hells we will!"

"Oho, you'd like that wouldn't you Bracken, bet you-"

"I say-"

Tiredly, and with a grim sort of resignation, I tuned them all out. I'd had enough. They'd been at it for nigh on an hour already, and my head hurt, my arms ached, my bruises were developing bruises all of their own, and I was really, really starting to need a drink.

A proper drink, not the shit I was currently lumbered with. The fact that said drink looked like something someone might have sneezed out of their nostrils at some point in time, that it smelt worse than it looked, and that it tasted almost as bad as it smelt, simply proved my point. Honestly, it was at times like these that I wished the bus that had cut short my previous life so suddenly had just killed me. Life would've been infinitely easier in heaven, I was almost certain of it, probably even in hell come to think about it.

Fuck me though, I thought sourly, gagging as the bitter taste of the ale touched my tongue, a bitter mood descending rapidly upon my admittedly already rather shitty mindset, of all the literary characters in all the fucking stories ever written...

Robb Stark. Robb fucking Stark. It was a joke. One giant, cruel, cosmic fucking joke. Robb Stark. That was the name of the body, or rather, the name of the previous person who dwelt within the body I'd found myself so impossibly, forcefully, shoved in.

I'd be tempted to claim almost anyone else would have made a better host than the Young Wolf, but, well… I was in Westeros.

At least, I remember consoling myself at the time, at least Robb Stark never got flayed and castrated, or pumped full of crossbow bolts while sitting ignobly on the loo, or got to wear a molten crown of gold, or… you get the point.

Still, my recent existential crisis aside, there was but one question that still consumed my whole, that I yearned to fully unravel, let alone solve even as I soldiered on.

Was I Robb Stark?

It was true, after all, that I had inherited all of his memories. Everything he had once known was now mine, including his body, his Direwolf, even his family, such as it was.

Did all of that make me Robb Stark? Or am I still who I was before?

Does a body go hand in hand with a name?

They were all questions I'd asked myself many times, and as before, I still had no answer, no matter how much I thought on it.

"I'll not take that cheek from a Blackwood!" the Lord of Stone Hedge suddenly thundered, breaking me out my depressing musings, as he pointed an accusing finger at the lord in question.

Blackwood, as expected, snarled in response, his close cropped salt and pepper beard quivering in rage as he stood up threateningly in challenge.

Riverlords, both I, and the assembled Northerners seemed to think as one, the lot of us collectively rolling our eyes at each other. Them more than me true, still...

The bemusement was as clear as day on my bannerman's faces as their riverlander counterparts began shouting at each other, each man an army unto himself as the battle lines among their ranks solidified and the argument escalated.

That was the problem with the Riverlands really, I thought philosophically, taking another horrible sip from my drinking horn as I watched the escalating chaos unfolding around me. There's just too many people far too close together.

It was a rather uncharitable opinion, to lump the entire region into a single pot like that, I know. But after reading the books and watching the televised series, it was rather hard not to form such an opinion. The Riverlands of G.R.R Martin's literary works after all, reminded me eerily of Germany before its unification; at the heart of everything, always taking the brunt of the shit, and full of petty, bickering arseholes, none of whom it must be said, liked each other, and who couldn't collectively gather their wits together if they were handed both a bucket and spade.

...and I'm stuck in the sodding middle of them.

The Northerners, it seemed, didn't care a whit for the chaos unfolding all around us. Instead, my fellow northerners indulged themselves with a chorus of whoops, cheers and encouragements as House Vance of Wayfarer's rest entered the fray on Stone Hedge's side. A bold declaration that was swiftly followed on by the Freys.

The Pipers and Mallisters however, declared for Blackwood. Not out of any real love for the Riverlands resident heathen family, of that I was sure, but rather, I suspected, as an opportunity to settle a few old rivalries of their own.

Swords were unsheathed, threats were issued… and I found myself sighing.

Again.

I'd been sighing a lot recently, I noted idly, watching as Black Walder smashed the pommel of his sword into young Patrek Mallister's face with a fierce lunge that took the Heir of Seagard totally by surprise.

Another old feud that one, perhaps not as old as the legendary Blackwood/Bracken one, but the Cape of Eagles had long since been contested in its entirety between the Freys of the Crossing, and the Mallisters of Seagard, and now looked to be as good a time as any to settle old scores so it seemed.

It was, I sighed, no great wonder that the Lannisters had smashed Edmure Tully's host at the Golden Tooth, not with this lot. They had all on getting along with each other, let alone fighting alongside each other. Uncharitable I know, but true.

Another sigh loosed from my lips and I contemplated another drink. Then I thought better of it, sighed again, and cast an appraising eye out across the battlefield, spotting a little Crannogman who had taken to the shadows behind a gloating Black Walder - who was no doubt keen to settle a debt of his own.

That there was yet another rivalry worth noting. A rivalry that might very well win joint place, if not a solid silver second, alongside the timeless Bracken/Blackwood affair. Only this one involved neither of the aforementioned parties and instead focused itself once more upon the only family almost universally hated by all of the Riverlords… the Freys. Truly it must be said, the Freys really did make friends wherever they went, and i'd agreed to marry into them...

Though that was a trail of thought best left for later, once I'd drank a bit more.

Nonetheless, as the 'war council' descended deeper and deeper into a free for all brawl between its varied, colourful participants, I found some small token of solace in the knowledge that I'd at least managed to accomplish the first small step towards seeing 'Operation: Stay Alive' through to its thorough conclusion.

There would be no King in the North nonsense this time. Nope. None.

Allowing himself to be crowned that, combined with an unbending sense of honour and a very poor understanding of politics had killed poor Robb Stark before he could even get going, not that he'd got very far to begin with.

I, however, had no such scruples, and I was in no way interested in rehashing old ground, not even slightly. I was staying as far away from crowns and thrones as I possibly could. Hell, I'd have tried to skip Westeros entirely if I thought I could get away with it. Essos maybe, or better yet maybe even Sothoryos, anywhere was bound to be better than Westeros at the current moment, and things were only going to get worse.

Sadly however, those dreams of a hasty escape, a quiet boat ride and a peaceful retirement in a nice equatorial region in the east, had been dashed before they could begin. It was no easy feat after all, to escape into anonymity after waking up in a tent at the head of a camped army marching to war. I'd not even tried. Few things were frowned upon even half so much as a craven, especially in a medieval culture.

Still, despite my resigned acceptance of the situation at hand, however grudgingly it was, I can safely say that there is no sensation stranger than to awaken in a world you neither know nor recognise. The memories, I remembered, had flitted in and out of my mind those first few hours once I'd awoken. At first they had assaulted me, a great surge of newfound knowledge and images, like a great dam bursting at its base and the vast body of water contained behind it surging forth with all the intensity of a raging hurricane. I'd like to say that I handled it well, but truthfully, I didn't, the unfortunate evidence had been in my trousers. I don't really recall much of how it started, to be honest. It was painful, that I remembered, my body spasmed something fierce the first few hours, and the burning, I remember an all consuming burning spreading throughout my body as the memories poured in.

At first, the memories were mine, or, at least what I'd originally considered to be mine. Memories of long draughty nights spent studying for my mechanical degree in a dingy, overpriced block of student accommodation, a can of Red Bull my only company. Others, were of a lonely childhood on my father's farm, my spare time spent hidden in books, my overworked parents and disinterested siblings playing only a minor role in an otherwise solitary existence. I suppose I can say, looking back on these memories now, that life up until my last "modern" memory had been something of a disappointment. For all the academics I had achieved, for all the hard work and studying I had poured myself in to, to better escape a life of agriculture and mediocrity like my siblings before me, I had lived a boring and nondescript life. Ordinary.

All of that changed with the new memories...

These memories were colder, not in an actual physical sense, but rather, an emotional one. As if the feelings that should be attached to them were missing somehow. These were memories of a childhood filled with sword training and archery, of reading scrolls and parchment-bound books filled with heraldry and coats of arms. A flood of flashes and brief glimpses, a thousand pictures flickering across the spectrum of my minds eye, leaving behind an incomprehensible understanding of things previously unknown. It was an experience that's hard to describe, and though near a week and two days had passed since it- although the spasms and headaches had long since receded, I was still not sure that I could.

Thus, upon awakening, and after a hasty change of breeches, I had set about trying to recognise the world I had awoken in. I shan't bore you with the horror i felt upon realising it was Westeros, nor shall I go into the crying, weeping and wrathful despair I engaged in thereafter.

No, such descriptions are both unneeded and unproductive. Instead, after my caterwauling had subsided, I found myself deciding upon two things of equal importance. Number one; I was going to follow the Young Wolf's initial campaign strategy with but a few alterations of my own, and secondly, I was not ever, ever, ever, ever going to accept a crown. Not on my bloody life.

Nope.

Which left me personally in a bit of a bind. I was tempted to declare myself a Stannis man, despite all of my personal reservations regarding said Baratheon, or his brother. Or any Baratheon really. They were all cunts if you thought about it unbiasedly.

"Argh!"

"Ha! Take that you Weasel-faced-"

"Look at the bog-devil there, Umber!"

"Good sho-"

Children. I sighed, again, before taking a quick gulp from my horn- it's dirty insides still half-full of the swill that somehow passed as 'ale' in this wretched world, i'm surrounded by bloody children.

While the Greatjon crowed over the little crannogman-that-could's victory over the Frey-who-was-now-unconscious, I could feel myself growing even more irritable. The piss-poor ale in my hand wasn't helping matters any either.

It just wasn't the same, I thought miserably, staring down at the swill I held in my hand. What I wouldn't give for a real pint, a Guinness maybe, I thought wistfully, or perhaps even a Boddingtons. Anything would be better than this... witch-piss!

Downing another gulp, and grimacing as I did so, I glanced around the clearing both myself and the assembled northern-riverlander nobles were (kind of) seated in, half-heartedly ignoring the half a dozen different brawls that had broken out during my melancholy moment.

We'd found it not a few hours before the Battle of the Camps, nestled within a sparse sprinkling of woodland within eyesight of Riverrun.

Elston's Tower, if I recalled my- Robb's, memories correctly. Lady Catelyn had told her children of it once. Of how King Humfrey Teague- the reigning King of the Trident at the time, had smashed the rebellious lord of Riverrun here, slaying him alongside his host before burning down the keep.

Only for the Teague's to be cut down by the Durrandon's later on.

The keep was a ruin now of course, withered away over time and through the pillaging of stones by the smallfolk. Thieving little buggers that they are.

It was impressive enough though, I'd grant it that at least. I'd seen a few castles in my time, it was hard not to really when one grew up on a continent as steeped in history as Europe, but ruined as it was, the Keep was still very impressive.

Even in its decrepit state its imposing stature still managed to cast its environs in shadow, and for that I was thankful. People watching was so much easier to indulge in after all, when one cannot pinpoint who is looking at who.

Take everybody's favourite Frey for example...

Black Walder was unconscious, his weasel faced features planted firmly in the mud, while one of his brothers, Edwyn -I thought his name was, and some wart-covered, pimply faced son of Ser Ryman (who was also a Frey), attempted to wrestle the rather vindictive little Crannogman who was attempting (and surprisingly enough succeeding) to throttle his downed opponent. Attempting been the key word there. The Frey's I imagined, were probably one of those few families who subscribed to the age old maxim that quantity was a quality all of its own. Even if it wasn't proving particularly true for those three.

To their left, the young Mallister heir had apparently recovered his wits from the face full of sword he'd received earlier and was now shouting obscenities at a small band of Frey's, who amongst their number stood Ser Stevron -who it must be said looked rather apologetic, even whilst he was having a steel dagger brandished in his face. The other Frey's were-

"Come here and say that to my face you liver lilied cur," Bracken suddenly roared, tearing my focus away from the squabbles my future in-laws were engaged in as I watched the bear-like man try and throw himself across the clearing despite the hands, elbows, and the Blackfish's legs currently restraining him.

The Lord of Raventree Hall faired little better than his principal rival as, despite his bloodied nose, and rather inarticulate screams of, well… whatever he was actually trying to shout, the man was trapped under a mountain of Piper and Vance guardsmen, the former of which were attempting to restrain him, and the latter of which were attempting to restrain the former.

It was all a bit of a mess really, much like a train wreck I suppose. It was awful, bloody, horrifying, and despite my best attempts, I found myself unable to look away, even as I began weighing my options.

The first option was of course to interfere, to try and impose some sort of order upon the increasingly hostile environment we were assembled in, but that carried risks. Big ones. Where Robb had denounced Renly's claim in canon, once Lord Bracken had suggested it, I had done nothing -mostly I'll admit, because I knew where exactly where that particular conversation led to. Operation Stay Alive, remember? Involving myself now, installing order among the quarrelling ranks of the riverlords and bringing proceedings back to their true purpose might very end up taramount to proposing myself as king, cos let's face facts, there really was no genuinely better candidate, not really. And that was putting aside the entire thorny issue of the North's (as a mostly whole), utter disillusionment with the South, with the Iron Throne and with the pomped up Andal fucks who continually kept seating the ugly thing.

The second option available to me was little better. I could simply stay silent, let the embarrassing outbursts continue and do nothing. The risk of potential backlash on that path was minimal after all, for me at least, two utter victories to my name and with no notable losses had eased the doubts and dissenting voices within my own bannermen rather swiftly.

Besides, technically speaking, the riverlords were not my bannermen per say, they were my -Robb's, grandfathers, and as the only representative of House Tully present was currently been dragged along the muddy, moss-ridden ground, arms and legs wound firmly around an enraged Jonos Bracken, well, who was I to interfere in what was so obviously an internal affair of House Tully?

Anyway, the point was rather a moot one given the looming circumstances and I had much bigger worries to mull over, such as who the fuck were we going to declare for?

Joffrey was a no-go straight off the bat, which left two other options aside from the other alternative, which were both, well… not very inspiring to say the least.

Still, as long as the squabbling continued I had a little time to think, not much admittedly, but enough. Fleetingly, I wondered if should just draw up a pro and cons list for both of the brothers Baratheon? Or maybe just flip a coin. Either option would work well enough. Then they'd just be the consequences to deal with.

"-i'll pluck those damn feathers from yer cloak and tell yer where yer can shove 'em you poxy little Raven!" That, as you might have predicted, was Lord Bracken, who still hadn't managed to shake off his hanger-ons even as he continued frothing at the mouth, his thick riverlander accent becoming more noticeable with every word he shouted.

...and then I noticed Lord Karstark stumbling closer, a wide grin on his withered, wind battered face, and what little solace I'd taken in the fact that at least my bannermen were behaving, plummeted.

Of course they were going to get involved, I sighed miserably, resigning myself to plan one even as I continued to hope that plan two might yet survive this latest impending disaster. Drunk Northerners pumped up full of testosterone with a nearby brawl to watch….

The whole thing practically wrote itself.

The sunburst Lord of Karhold thought little of my troubles however, swaying jubilantly as he shuffled forwards, a warhorn full of mead tilted full to his mouth while his sons Torrhen and Eddard struggled to support him. The three of them had been cheering the melee on for quite some time, through which side they were rooting for the Gods only knew.

Eddard was a tall lad, a mop of deep chestnut hair atop his head with a handful of braids trailing down the left side of his face courtesy of his younger sister Alys, the sentimental bastard. Torrhen was much the same as his brother, only taller, stockier and much more grim, as if the gods themselves had taken one look at Eddard and decided we can do better.

I had grown rather fond of the pair of them since we split our forces at the Twins, though mounting horror was rapidly replacing that fondness the closer they got to Lord Blackwood's impromptu jenga pile, and I winced as I saw one of the Vance men at arms spot their approach.

Shit.

It was, I thought with a distinct sense of panicked humour, times like these that really, really made one want a drink. Subconsciously I glanced down at the one third full warhorn and frowned. The murky brown substance looked back. Just… not this drink.

Out of my viewing field -my own eyes still engaged in my rather depressing one sided staring contest, I heard Torrhen mutter something and Eddard laugh. Their lordly father chortled in agreement with the pair of them.

It was then, at that point, that I realised I missed Harrion. The eldest Karstark brother, Harrion, had accompanied us far as the Twins before joining the northern foot under the command of Lord Robett Glover. If he were here, well, I couldn't quite state with absolute certainty that he would have behaved better than his kinsmen, but it was a nice thought nonetheless.

Privately, I wondered just how Harrion was doing after everything that had happened, that I'd asked him to do. It was no easy feat after all, to be asked to use yourself as bait while separated from your father and brothers.

Mothe- Lady Catelyn, I reminded myself firmly, had argued in favor of Roose Bolton. 'He was cold, calculating and ruthless', she'd said, 'exactly the kind of man you'd want in charge of an army marching to almost certain defeat against a better armed, better trained force with a lot of heavy horse'. I'd disagreed. Cannon results aside, wasting five thousand men on a diversionary battle was just plain stupid when you didn't need to fight a battle at all.

Which was the point. I didn't need to fight the Battle of the Green Fork, nobody did, all we really needed was to keep Tywin Lannister's eyes focused on the army he could see, and not on the one he couldn't.

The plan had been simple, so very, very simple. Tywin Lannister had never met Robb Stark, he'd never needed to and quite frankly I really, really doubted he'd ever want to. Only his deformed Dwarf of a son ever had- a son the man thought so little of, that he'd put him in charge of Casterly Rock's sewers in order to get him out of sight.

It was child's play really. Harrion Karstark, beguiled in his very own armour, sat atop the finest horse we could find, holding the banner of the Direwolf high and proud, had rode south. He had 17,000 men, 16,500 of which were the hastily assembled foot of the North. He had only 600 horse.

17,000 Northerners versus the 20,000 man host commanded by the mighty Tywin Lannister himself, 7,500 of which was cavalry. Battles had been fought with far worse odds. I knew it, Tywin probably knew it, anyone who'd ever picked up a history book would've know it. A fresh-faced green boy seeking glory and vengeance would have obliged. I didn't.

After all, the goal was to avoid a pitched battle. To that end, as 'Harrion's' army lumbered south down the Kings Road, maintaining a believable pace as it did so, pits had been dug here and there, then they'd been covered, marked and moved on from. Traps had been set, earth had been displaced and all of it had been carefully marked and factored into the army's eventual 'retreat'. All of it had been done under the blanketing cover of darkness, all of it by a forward command group always at least a day ahead of the main army. All of it in preparation for a battle that wasn't going to be fought.

From what few words we'd received from Lord Glover, once word had arrived by courier, it seemed the plan had worked spectacularly. Better than I had ever hoped it to do so, in fact. Concrete numbers and details were yet to be fully verified, but our own losses were estimated to number merely in the odd hundreds, instead of 'canon's' thousands, courtesy of a few glancing skirmishes as the Lannister horse had pursued our army's tactical withdrawal once the Old Lion had attempted to meet us on the field of battle. _Operation: Major Time Waste_ had been a tremendous success.

The Lannister's on the other hand…

Well, I'd like to say we crushed them utterly, smashed, routed and pursued them right out of the Riverlands, or into the Greenfork, but I'd be lying. Tywin was far too cunning for such an eventuality to occur. The-Mountain-who-rides however, was a different beast entirely. As I said, details were rather lacking of the exact nature of the battle save for Lord Glovers rather curt missive:

'Withheld battle from Lord Tywin's host. Ser Gregor wounded. Lannister retreats south along Kingsroad. Returning to the Twins. Minimal casualties.'

It was short, sweet and very much to the point, just like the man who wrote it. The fact that the missive in question was so short on details hadn't dimmed the jubilation and elation of the already twice-over victorious army when news of their third 'victory' over the Lions of Lannister had reached them. No, instead, the men (and women) had broken out into song. Gleeful renditions of The Wolf That Prowls The Night, mocking chants of The Rains of Castamere, revelry had filled the air.

Jaime Lannister captured, Riverrun liberated, Tywin Lannister retreating, the Lords (and Ladies of House Mormont, it never really went well when one omitted them from the roll-calls) had all but abandoned trying to reign in the exuberance of the men once the news had spread.

Which had brought the assembled gathering here -sat amidst one of the last surviving monuments of the long extinct House Teagues victories, where it was quiet and we could supposedly further plan the campaign ahead of us. Supposedly.

The army for the most part had been left encamped outside of Riverrun, salvaging what war materials and supplies could be saved from the burning carcass of the Lannister camp. Rodrik Forrester had taken charge of those efforts, alongside dispersing what food and supplies we could spare to the hundreds of smallfolk that had sought refuge within its walls.

The real star of the show however (and currently missing from war council), at least in my own humble opinion, was the one and only Ser Edmure Tully, my 'uncle'.

What did mine own Nuncle do to deserve such an honour, you might ask?

He was missing, well... not really missing per se, but I imagine only the gods would truly know where he was. My Great-Uncle, Ser Brynden the Blackfish Tully, had last reported him having his shackles broken by one of the army's smiths, before been pulled aside by a rather young flaxen haired shieldmaiden with a particularly generous set of lumps above her chest. It did not, a genius take, to figure out what he was up to. The lucky bastard.

Not that I could blame the poor chap really. One can only imagine just how fucking awful it must have been to sit a prisoner of Jamie fucking Lannister while the blonde haired shit of a knight (and his equally shitty Lordly father) laid waste to all his family knew and owned.

No, I didn't begrudge the man an opportunity to blow off a little steam after the ordeal he'd probably been through. Besides, moth-Lady Catelyn hadn't stopped frowning since the Blackfish had made his excuses on his nephews behalf, I figured Edmure would have enough problems from his own immediate family without some uppity nephew of his causing him grief too. Even if I was positively green with envy that while I sat here, drinking shitty witch-piss ale listening to my lords bicker, he was getting his tail-end away. As I said before, the lucky, lucky bastard!

Truth be told, I was practically on the cusp of using the uproarious chaos around me to slink away and indulge in a little post-battle recreation myself when i caught sight of a small stone sailing wistfully towards my head. A quick jerk to the left avoided the first of the propelling projectiles but drove me straight into the path of the second, heavier stone.

Ding!

Frowning as I did so, I reached down to inspect the tiny little stone that had chinked my left pauldron with a fair bit of precision before a third stone came flying my way (this time aimed at my head!).

Another artful dodge -if I do say so myself, and I avoided the latest of the rocks thrown in my general direction, and I found my frown morphing inself into a glare. Here I was, minding my own fucking business, taking every bloody precaution to try and not get caught up in the revelry around me, and someone was throwing bloody rocks at me!

Tully blue eyes, -and wasn't that hard to get used to seeing, having formerly had the same dull chestnut brown eyes of my mother all my life before, looked up, following the direction the blasted things had flown from.

To be fair, the truth should not, in any way, shape or form, have surprised me, not once I met the concentrated exasperation pooling in the deep forest green irises staring insolently back at me. Narrowed, almond-shaped eyes that looked distinctly disapproving. Of me, the cursing Lord Karstark, the surrounding chaos playing out in the clearing around us, or everything in general, I knew not.

Dacey fucking Mormont's eyes.

I should have known, I thought blithely, I should've bloody known. Only a fucking Mormont would have the balls to throw rocks at their liege lord.

Gripping the fairly smooth stone between my forefinger and thumb, and raising it to my 'watchers' gaze, I cocked an upraised eyebrow in question and frowned. Dacey smirked back and shot me another look.

"Yer shitty 'lil River-Rats!" the Greatjon rumbled suddenly, his gargantuan form staggering drunkenly across the clearing exuberantly, clearly inebriated. "All of ye so small, so, so… petty!"

"Shut-it Northman!"

"Who the fuck you calling petty, Umber?!"

"You tell 'em Milord!" a bold Forester squire, who'd quite clearly been in the jugs instead of serving them, called out encouragingly from the sidelines, inadvertently pouring fuel on an already bad situation. Privately, deep within the recesses of my mind, I made a mental note to hang the little bastard if I ever discovered his identity.

Dacey Mormont, whose eyes had briefly broken from mine at the Lord of the Last Hearths outburst, flickered back to mine with wide eyed shock. Do something, she mouthed clearly, jerking her head towards the bristling Riverlords, whose own disagreements with each other seemed to have been put to the wayside in the face of outsider aggression.

Children, I swore to myself silently, again, their all sodding children.

Still, for better or worse, the Mormont chit was right, things were beginning to get majorly out of hand and if things continued to develop in the direction they were heading… well, come sunrise, I might not have any lords left, let alone an army for them to lead.

"You Northmen let your squires talk for you do you? Fucking heathens-"

"Now wait just a minute you littl-"

"My Lords, please…. MY LORDS!"

What to do?... What do I do?

Desperately, despite the rising maelstrom of angry, uppity, even indignant, voices across the noisy din of the clearing, I cast my mind back to the few times in the past that I'd been unfortunate enough to have had to babysit my younger siblings for any inspiration I could grasp. I found nothing, or at least, nothing that would be of any immediate help here.

Fuck it.

"Renly is not the king".

Silence descended upon the mass of bickering lords around me in an instant, and it took me a moment to realise that the loud, authoritative words had been mine. So much for not getting involved…

"Renly", I repeated firmly, standing from my seat, fingers firmly clenched menacingly around the now near empty horn of ale in my hands, "is not the King."

As my glare swept over the assembled northern bannermen, the Northern Lords (and foxy ladies of House Mormont) inclined their heads subordinately and stepped back a little. It was, I must confess, a far cry from the belligerent, demanding, disbelieving vassals that had second guessed and sneered at a 'green boy' leading them back at the war's beginning. The Greatjon in particular winced, drunkenly backstepping as he clutched at the two stumps on his right hand where Grey Wind had found an open meal for the taking not a week and a half ago.

Evidently, I had either proven myself worthy of listening to, or they were just shit scared of being eaten by a Direwolf the size of a small pony. I wasn't sure which, and at that moment I really didn't care. I'd had enough. I was angry dammit, so fucking angry. At them, at the Lannisters, at whatever the fuck was going on. Any of it, all of it.

The silence stretched on undisturbed. The Northerners were silent now, most of them stock still, their eyes fixed upon on me intently, while others -Lords Karstark, Umber and oddly enough, the stone-slingling Lady Mormont among them, gazed across at me with something indiscernible in their eyes.

Admiration, perhaps?

No.

No, it was both more and less than admiration, and infinitely more complicated I noted with a scathing glance in their direction. No, not admiration, not really, it was some weird anglamation of possessive pride and fierce determination. Whether it for me or against what I suspected they thought I was going to suggest, I knew not.

Putting that particularly confusing thought aside, I then turned my attention back to the battered Riverlords, the sight of whom almost made me laugh out loud..

Black Walder was still on the floor, albeit awake and groggy, while his Crannogman assailant stood off to the side, held at swordpoint by Ser Raymund Frey while his kinsmen tended to their own injuries. 

"You, you cannot mean to hold to Joffery, my lord", Lord Bracken protested weakly, his form hunched over as he held his left side limply, obviously in pain while he shot daggers at a muddy Ser Brynden who was attempting to right himself. "He put your father to death!"

A chorus of murmured agreements rippled out across my bannermen at that, and more than one set of northern eyes glared daringly back at me. Moth -Lady Catelyn, I corrected myself firmly, winced. Poor thing.

"That doesn't make Renly king" I retorted angrily, raising my voice a little louder to better address the rest of my assembled lords. "Renly is Robert's youngest brother. If my own brother Bran, who is younger than I can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, then by those same laws, Renly can't be king before Stannis".

"Do you mean to declare us for Stannis then?" Bracken demanded suddenly, his blotchy face and swollen eyes radiating disapproval as he glared sullenly back at me. It was an expression mirrored on at least a dozen different faces, most of them northern, and all of them looking for all the world like I'd just suggested they eat shit and smile whilst doing so.

It was no secret that m-Robb's lord father had readily bent the knee before the House of Baratheon at the Rebellions end out of friendship, out of the shared upbringing that had forged the two of them closer than brothers, closer than their own brothers truth be told. But it was equally known that Stannis was a stern man, ill-loved, stoic, and with little patience for anyone or anything that didn't meet with his own dour sense of approval. It was also whispered, the rumours said, that he had taken a red priestess from across the sea and cleaved tighty to her bosom, a woman who held his ear, a red witch who demanded the burning of all gods but her own. The fact that I knew that to be true, that I'd witnessed through my own reading and viewing of the books just how far the pair of them were willing to go for the sake of their shared delusions, only served to make me even more leery of the man. At least within my own mind.

Stannis was the rightful king, there was no disputing that, not really. Renly had more men, more charm, a better grasp of the intricate politics of the realm than his elder brother ever could, but he was useless. Worse than useless in fact. He was the man who had a one hundred thousand man army, the full might of Storms End and Highgarden at his back, who need only march up the Kings Road at a decent pace and take King's Landing, and what did he do? He threw parties and held fucking tourneys whilst he leisurely waltzed his way along at a bloody snails pace with not a care in the world.

No, despite all my difficulties with accepting Stannis as a potential king, he was still better than Renly. For even if the flowery dandy actually managed to avoid getting shadow-babied this time around, even if he actually made it to King's Landing and successfully laid claim to the Iron Throne, the man was still a fool. It would be another Robert Baratheon all over again, only without the Demon of the Tridents few redeeming qualities. It would be a short reign full of gross excesses, flamboyant tourneys and petty power plays, and when winter finally came, when the White Walkers finally marched south, well… somehow I doubted Renly Baratheon would be capable of leading anyone through that, if he didn't just outright dismiss it all as a hoax. The man was an opportunistic coward and I wanted nothing to do with him.

Which brought me back full circle to Lord Bracken… and Stannis...

You know your well and truly buggered as a society when the best choice you have left for King lies within a contest between a power-hungry usurping incompetent, and his equally power-hungry, scarily fanatical, uncompromising shit of a older brother, but that was the truth of the matter.

The truly sad thing about it all however, was not that Stannis was power-hungry, or even uncompromising. Nope, this was Westeros after all, and after reigns under such illustrious monarchs like Aegon the Unworthy, Maegor the Cruel, or even mad Aerys II, the Seven Kingdoms had developed something of a… ah, tolerance for really shitty kings. The real problem lay in the elder stags fanaticism.

The Northerners as a rule kept close counsel with the Old Gods. I myself, from Robb's own memories, could recall the stories of how the Andals had burnt and hacked down the Weirwoods of the South, robbing the Gods of their eyes and ears below the Neck. If I declared us all for Stannis without guarantees (which I couldn't guarantee Stannis would give us), my Northern lords might very well string me up alongside the Lannisters. To say nothing of how the Riverlords, a curious mix of Old and New Gods worshippers, might react. Whichever way I went, well…

I was buggered.

"Renly is not right!" shouted the limp form of Lord Tytos Blackwood from aside, two pair of arms looped roughly beneath his shoulders as lady Maege Mormont and one of her daughters... Alysane? Lyra? ...attempted to extricate him from the mountain of bodies atop him.

The crowd burst into bickering again, the same as before. Bracken was quick to retort angriliy at Blackwood, his finger waving rigidly, Black Walder, from his position on the floor, groaned miserably in agony, and I sighed, again. The arguing grew louder, loudly enough in fact that for a brief moment I feared hostilities would resume, and that actual blood might be shed.

"If we put ourselves behind Stannis-" Blackwood attempted.

"My lords!"

For God's sake. Please don't be him, please let it not...

...and there was the Greatjon, making a muck of things, as was his want. The twat.

Fearfully, and with no small amount of rising trepidation, I watched as the hulking fur-clad form of the Lord of Last Hearth tumbled out from his position on the sidelines and waltzed merrilly out into the ring of chaos around us. "My lords!"

With a brief pang of amusement, I watched as Black Walders fingers crunched under the lumbering giants wandering feet, the Frey's pained squark quickly absorbed by the noise of the ongoing bickering as said northman trampled over the prone river lord's downed form as he took centre stage and shouted. "MY LORDS!"

Silence rocketed across the clearing and my initial fears warped horribly as the giant oaf of a man said the nine words I'd have gladly traded both my tesicles to never hear, "Here is what I say to these two kings-" and then he spat, the cretin actually SPAT!

While my shock was probably a tad bit out of place amidst the smiling, cheering faces of my bannermen, I found I didn't care. I knew what was happening and suddenly I had much bigger worries than what horror-stricken expression had plastered itself so firmly across my face.

The Alarm bells, which had started at the Greatjon's arrival onscene reached a crescendo within my ears. It wasn't possible, it wasn't happening, it was *not* happenin-

Who was I fucking kidding?

It was all going wrong. It was happening!

I had to *do* something. Anythin-

...and then the shit well and truly hit the fan.

Years later, looking back on that moment I would often wonder just how differently things might have panned out had I not laughed, had the Greatjon not taken my amusement as tacit approval for his ramblings and had I actually attempted to dissuade him from his proto-nationalistic spiel.

In my defence, however, I would like to point out that I was in shock. It's one thing to know something might happen and try to avoid it, especially given all the events that followed it, it's quite another to try and follow through on said convictions once the milk has been spilt. What was it they said, 'No plan survives contact with the enemy'?

As it stood, I did not compose myself fast enough, I did not reign in my impulses and stay objective. I was riding high on a ballooning wave of anger, shock, horror and no small amount of despair, and so I laughed, and Black Walders indignant screeches howled across the din.

"You whoreson! You great big bloody arse!", the shrill Frey-son screamed, broken fingers tentatively probing his now mucus ridden mop of hair -the unknowing first casualty of The War of Northern Independence.

As his brothers, cousins, nephews -whatever familial relation they were, helped their niece-diddling kinsman back to his feet, Black Walder snarled viscously at the unrepentant Lord Umber, who frowned briefly before laughing, turning his back on the three times humiliated Frey and soldiering on… again, as was his way.

"Renly Baratheon means nothing to me!" the blundering sod went on, flashing me a cheery grin even as my laughter stopped and gave way to yet another horror stricken expression.

Blackwood, Mallister and Mormont alike all hollered in agreement alongside a dozen other Northerners as the Greatjon continued. "Nor Stannis neither!"

"Hear hear!" another arse cheered from aside, one of the Wolfswood Lords if I recalled their sigil correctly. A member of House Branch, I reckoned?

Whoever they bloody well were, I made another mental note to have them hanged for encouraging the spreading insanity among the ranks as well. Once I'd calmed things down. If I could calm things down. 

"My Lord Umber-" I started pleasantly, pasting a less horrified expression on my face even as I attempted to quash down on my rather desperate urge to throttle the rat bastard. "Much as I might agree with the true sentiment of your words, we ought not to-"

"YOU SEE MY LORDS!" ...and that there was Rickard Karstark, the fucker, who had, apparently, decided that if he couldn't join the Riverlords in their attempts at murdering each other, that he was then going to join good 'ole Lord Umber in effectively declaring war on the rest of Westeros.

The little shit. I was gonna kill him! Him and Umber both.

"Even young Lord Stark agrees!"

"Aye!"

"No, no, that's really not what I-"

"Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in the South?" The Giant of Umber then rumbled, a meaty hand damn near the size of my own head clamping down on my shoulder companionably, even as he exchanged pleased grins with the Lord of Karhold beside me. "What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood?! Even their Gods are wrong!"

Most of the Northern lords laughed at that, the lady Mormont laughing the hardest of them all. A few didn't, I noticed grimly, Houses Manderly, Forrester & Whitehill among their number, but they were few and nowhere near enough to stem the tide.

I was fucked, and it really didn't take a genius to figure out why.

Glancing around the ring of men standing circled in a crescent half moon shape around us only served to confirm it for me. The Northerners looked positively, utterly, completely fucking gleeful, so much so in fact, that I could practically taste their anticipation of the Greatjon's next words, as if they'd somehow managed to give their wanton desires physical form, cooked them to a crisp and then forced them down my throat with nary a whit of concern for my own desires.

I felt sick, or rather, I felt queasy. Sick would have been better. At the very least I could thrown up all over the two banes of my existence and put a stop to their machiavellian schemes before their grand finale.

As it was however, like in everything that had happened since we dispersed from Riverrun to meet here, I was disappointed once again. The much desired sickness failed to appear and the Greatjon's soliloquy continued. "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again?"

It was obviously intended to be a rhetorical question but I could think of several reasons why we shouldn't, most of which i'd thought up over the previous days while worrying over the very eventuality that was unfolding out before me.

"It was the dragons we bowed to", Lord Umber went on, his hand -the one not gripping my shoulder in an iron grip, went to the blade at his hip. Lord Karstark to his left nodded solemnly, although the effect of that was somewhat ruined given his inability to stand up under his own weight.

"...and now the Dragons are dead!"

Irritably, I opened my mouth to refute his claim, to declare that technically there were in fact two Targaryens actually still alive in the world who did have a claim, dubious though it might have been given that their family was overthrown and all that, and then I thought better of it.

Seriously, what the hell was wrong with me? I had all on between deciding to support either Stannis or his flower diddling brother Renly and now I was suddenly contemplating Targaryens.

Buggery to that idea, I thought with wince, watching with increasing resignation as the Lord of Last Hearth pulled his ancestral sword clean from its sheath and turned to point the tip of it at my befuddled form.

The mere thought of Viserys was enough to make any sane man shudder. The lad was basically a less sadistic version of Joffrey, only more delusional and sprinkled with a pinch of madness to boot, and as for his sister?

The less one said about Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen the better. I'd never really understood the love her character received from fans of G.R.R Martin's works, not least of all because she was so utterly, horribly, terrible at actually ruling anything. Astapor? Sacked twice, re-enslaved and now part of a greater Slaver Coalition. Yunkai? She'd freed the slaves, left her enemies in charge of the city and then what? Been surprised when they decided they wanted revenge? Who the sodding hell couldn't have seen that happening? And Meereen… no, not even worth mentioning.

What all of this actually meant in realpolitik terms… was that I was screwed. Well and utterly screwed. Stannis and Renly were no go's as far as the Northern Lords and Ladies in my army went, the Riverlands were rather split on the whole issue and declaring ourselves for Joffrey, while no doubt incredibly amusing given that we were technically at war with him, was out of the question. Which left only one other option…

Shit.

"This here is the only king I mean to bend my knee to-" the GreatJon then rumbled, squeezing my shoulder companionably before sinking down to one knee and thrusting his sword in my face. "The King in the North!" 

Silence was the only reaction for a minute and for a brief moment my heart soared. Perhaps, I thought optimistically, a brief shining light of hope raining down upon the despair ridden recesses of my psyche, perhaps my inaction really had-

"I'll have peace on those terms!" Lord Blackwood suddenly wheezed, staggering to his feet even as the Ladies Mormont steadied him, his salt and pepper beard twitching in what I could only call a pained grimace.

"Aye, they can keep their ruddy castle too, and that iron chair!" Lord Karstark grunted, drunkenly kneeling aside his sons, wobbly as all their combined movements were.

"Hear, hear!" another voice cried out, this one sounding suspiciously like the Wolfswood lord i'd decided to execute not minutes ago. "The King in the North!"

Numb with shock, It was at this point I belatedly remembered that Theon Greyjoy would ironically make his whole "Am I your brother?" speech round about now. Not that it would be happening in this timeline. Nope.

Young Greyjoy as it turned out -not Theon, never Theon. Despite a childhoods worth of inherited memories, that little shit would always be a Greyjoy in my mind. Seriously, who the fuck kills children and mounts their heads on a wall? The cretin.

Anyway, the little squid had accompanied Lord Glovers army when our host had split at the Twins. Mostly, I'd admit, because in the first two days since i'd 'arrived', the little git had clung to my shadow like a flea around shit. Between the boasting, his drinking, his lewd jokes and his generally annoying demeanor, i'd had enough of the man. That, and i'd also had a task worthy of his talents.

The little shit liked attacking and killing children and cripples? Well, it just so happened that I knew where a certain Half-man was going to be, what direction he was going to be travelling in and just how utterly fucked Kings Landing would be without him. A nice easy target just ripe for the picking.

Yup, while I might not have wanted to be King, and I certainly wasn't Stannis' biggest supporter or ally, at the very least I could hopefully remove one of the few competent Lannisters before he became a threat. Hopefully.

Greyjoy might have been a complete and utterly reprehensible little fucker, but he was my complete and utterly reprehensible little fucker, at least for the moment, and he was a damn good archer to boot… so I put him to work. Never let it be said that I couldn't be a cold hearted ruthless son of a bitch when the situation called for it. Like it or not, I was playing the Game of Thrones. You either won or you died. It was fire and blood, steel and-

"Say something lad", a sharp, gruff voice hissed urgently below me, tearing me from my musings as my eyes widened comically.

The Greatjon was frowning up at me, an uneasy expression plastered across his face, a bead of perspiration slick across his brow. His sword remained still up in the air too, stiff as a statue and its tip still in my face. Beside him knelt the Karstarks, the three of them currently present that is, and all of them wore the exact same strange expression, a bewildering mixture of befuddled confusion and aspirant hope.

Evidently the Greyjoy cunt was still a menace even when he wasn't present. I'd missed something, something big, that much was blatantly apparent, and what it was I had no idea.

The awkward silence continued to stretch on. I stared at Lord Umber, he stared gamely back. My mouth opened, and no words came out. It was all getting rather embarrassing really, and then it came, another bloody stone.

Stock still with terror, I can in all honesty state that I heard rather than felt the chink of the rock as it hit the armour on my forearm -vambrace.

The Greatjon spluttered in shock, the three Karstarks gaped, and looking up from my staring match with the Lord of Last Hearth, I realised just why the clearing was so goddamn quiet.

Kneeling, I thought numbly, my mind racing with implications as I scanned the assembled lords and ladies of the North and the Riverlands respectively. Their all bloody kneeling.

The Riverlanders were doing it with slightly more pomp and rather more hesitation than their Northern cousins, but still, It was defin-

Chink.

From my left came another strangled sort of noise, and the entire congregation of nobles present winced. Whether it was due to the sheer gall of someone actually throwing rocks at their potential new sovereign, or simply the whole unbelievably uncomfortable situation we'd all somehow managed to navigate ourselves into, I knew not.

I did know who was most likely responsible though, and with a weary, resigned sort of sigh, I chanced a glance to the side.

I'd never admit it out loud, but the moment my eyes found her, Dacey Mormont, the Heiress of Bear Island, the stone slinging all-round she-bear, the only thought I could muster was that she looked bloody amazing. Raven coloured hair had been pulled back into a crude sort of ponytail, her forrest green eyes were narrowed in concentration, and her arm was rising up into the air, her long fingers gripping yet another stone -although it was much bigger than the last few, in her hand.

Three guesses where she was aiming the ruddy thing?

For a few seconds nothing at all changed. I continued staring at the Mormont girl out of the corner of my eye. In front of me, the Greatjon alternated between shooting me pleading looks and glancing worriedly at everyone else. The Karstark brothers had started to grin while their lordly fathers frown grew ever more severe, and the uneasy silence stretched on. It was a bit like a mexican standoff really.

What do i do? I found myself thinking, repeatedly, over and over again, as I stood there, alone, every single bloody eye fixed intently upon me.

And as sad as it may sound it was not the thought of imminent kingship that I was thinking about. That probably would have been a much better use of my brain power I'd admit, but no. It was the rock I was thinking about. The large, grey, painful looking rock that was probably going to be thrown at my head any minute.

Valiantly fighting down the urge to scream, I chanced another look at it and fearful Tully blue eyes met exasperated green.

Mormont's face flashed with triumph even as I caught her red handedly preparing to loose her latest, and largest projectile to date towards me.

I shot her my best glare in return and with my eyes dared her, I fucking dare you!

Then say something, she seemed to mouth at me, or, at least that's what I thought she'd mouthed. Lip reading was never really my forte truth be told. Maybe I was just projecting on her. Who knew?

"Is he going to accept father?"

"Quiet lad, that's our future King your talking about!"

What!?

I was pretty sure I wasn't, or rather, that I hadn't actually accepted a crown. Had I? The whole thing had become terribly complicated and rather confusing, and I was pretty sure we'd deviated rather heavily from the books at this point.

My thoughts were all a jumble, like a load of freshly cleaned washing, spinning, spinning, spinning, around and round in the antique tumble dryer my parents had gifted to me when i moved out. Cheapskates.

Nothing was making much sense anymore, and as I glanced at the expectant faces watching me, Lady Mormont among them, my throat went dry.

Was this how the actual Robb Stark had felt when his bannermen had hailed him as king? If so, I could sympathise with the poor lad. Fuck the dimwits on the various internet forums who constantly ragged on the poor kid for 'declaring himself King in the North', if his position had been anything like this… well, as I said, I sympathised.

Still, something needed to be done, and quickly, before this clusterfuck managed to get even bigger than it already was. Or worse, before that rock made contact with my face.

It was time to project some real leadership, to take back control of the crowd and do something clever. Something productive. Something other than standing still with my mouth open gaping like a fish.

"Your… ah, Grace?"

Tentatively, I met Lord Umbers eyes. His sword was starting to waver, just a little. His expression was… expressive to say the least, and his forehead was doused in sweat.

This was it. Show time. Make or break, and all that. With a nervous smile, which in all actuality probably looked less like a smile so much as it did a grimace, and a particularly pained one at that, or so I imagined, I wet my lips and took the plunge. The words spewing forth with little thought spared for their order, articulation or meaning.

"Yes… well, it's, ah, well… er, you see, it's like-"

That was as far as I got. Though by the time the first word had passed my lips, I had already realised my mistake, and more importantly, the enormity of it. The rest of the words continued to pour out irregardless, stammered, jumbled, altogether confused but it was far too late. The damage had been done.

The Greatjon, who'd reared to attention at the first syllables to pass my lips, leapt to his feet with glee upon my first finished word, his previously anxious mood evaporating faster than water poured out onto the dusty ground of Death Valley under a midday sun.

I was still attempting to cease my inane ramblings long enough to force my mouth into some sort of cooperative cohesion when a great warcry let loose among the men, a hundred different voices simultaneously screaming in sync, the Umber giants the loudest.

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

Wide eyed and at least partially deaf, I froze, stock still, smothering the urge to cry even as the Greatjon's call was picked up by others. Most of the Northmen had joined in on the initial shout, but others, mainly the Riverlord's, were slowly beginning to join in. Blackwood was the first, followed by the illustrious members of House Frey a hair's breadth later.

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

"The King of the Trident!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

"THE KING OF THE TRIDENT!"

Again and again the men shouted, the clearing around the keep ringing with the force of their demands, their misunderstanding.

I wanted to cry, and I wasn't ashamed to admit it. I was fucked. Completely and utterly buggered. Operation: Stay Alive was going to need considerable revision in order to be of any use after all this. That is, if we survived this.

As the revelry continued all around me, chants and cheers of "King in the North" and "King of the Trident" howling throughout the surrounding countryside, I found myself craving my own company.

I wasn't sulking. I wasn't. I really, really wasn't.

But as I departed the revelry, I couldn't help but sigh. Again. For what felt like the hundredth time in a row.

Glancing back at the partying men and women behind me, I found myself wondering, what the fuck had I gotten myself into?

-oo00oo-

* * *

 **A/N:**

I'm going to state it right now, this was an idea I've had for a while. It originally started out life as a concept floating around in the back of my mind last year, round about the first time I read 'Oh God Am I the Mannis?'. Since then, I've read about half a dozen variations of the whole Self Insert lands in Westeros genre. 'A Trident is Forged', 'Blackfish Out of Water' [I think?], 'Inside the Wolf', all of them brilliant, all of them a good read. But one thing I noticed about most of them, is that the whole Self Insert genre generally tents to flow along the same lines i.e. 21st century guy/gal wakes up in Westeros so many years before cannon shit hits the fan, uplifts the natives and ... You get the idea. Except the Blackfish one, that was surprisingly different and brilliant to read. So I thought, what if an average joe kinda guy woke up in Westeros when the shit had already hit the fan. How would they adapt? Survive? What would they do?

The result?

...this.

Don't know if its any good, mostly wrote it in 5-10 minute allotments here and there when I had time. Figured I'd post it and share. I have a rough timeline and idea of where the plot would go from here, and I will continue to write and post as and of when I have enough material written to form new chapters and/or snippets.

Hope you enjoyed it, or at the least, didn't dislike it too badly.

Till next time folks.

 **P.S. I probably don't need to state this, but just in case I do, I do *NOT* own any rights whatsoever regarding GRRM's literary works, his characters, his world or its content.**

* * *

 **Chapter Update:**

After reading multiple reviews that questioned the 'plausibility' of the original version of the 'Battle of the Green Fork' I had written [it being a rather wank-ish, unrealistic, and as it later turned out -mostly while writing Chapter Three, problematic plot-hole] in the original version of this chapter, the Battle itself has been altered to reflect events more along 'canon' lines, i.e. a non-decisive victory for neither side. Technically, the 'battle' never happens, as Lord Glover is a rather more reserved and less confrontational commander [at least as far as I'm aware] and [at least in this version], spends most of what was in 'canon' the battle playing a game of cat and mouse with Lord Tywin's army, never openly committing to pitched battle and thus still avoiding the thousands of needless casualties Lord Bolton's diversion cost Robb in 'canon'. Hopefully this works better.

Cheers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Of Kings & Crowns - Chapter Two, 'No Means, No.'**

* * *

" _The War of the Eight Kings, (alternatively called; The First Baratheon Civil War, The Baratheon Succession Crisis or more simply, The Great Westerosi War), was a near four year long conflict that engulfed the continent of Westeros from 298 to 301AC, and was primarily fought between six of the eight Great Houses of Westeros._

 _Erupting during the final days of the reign of Robert of the House Baratheon, the conflict was one of the bloodiest and most destructive civil wars in Westerosi history, with the highest of estimates suggesting a figure upwards of over a million lives lost, not only from military engagements but also from violence, famine and plague. Significantly, of the people who perished over it's course, an overwhelming and disproportionately large number of these casualties were inhabitants of the Westerlands, Crownlands and Reachlands. It is widely regarded as the deadliest Westerosi conflict to date, altering the political, religious and economic balances of power within the Sunset Kingdoms forever_."

 _ **The Third Century Crisis: A Retrospective Appraisal of the Great Westerosi War**_

 _By Historian Malaqi Lothorio_

* * *

" _Fear not my Lords and Ladies, for I have a cunning plan."_ **Robb Stark 299AC,** Post Battle of the Whispering Wood.

* * *

 **299AC - A Random Tent in the Northern army camp outside of Riverrun...**

There's truly nothing quite like waking up in the morning with a raging hangover. The throbbing temples, the queasy stomach, the all round generally shitty feeling of just wanting to die. It's a fabulous feeling really, and it was, perhaps, the only single common thread shared universally by all human beings, no matter their country, continent or origin.

Some people, namely those who deliberately go out to reach such illustrious lows following their wild nights out on the town, often leave their mornings the next day free, mostly to recover.

Kings, as I had so recently discovered, did not get that luxury.

"-Yer Grace!"

"No coronation", I found myself repeating, tiredly, for what admittedly felt like the thousandth time that morning.

Hibberd, a Maester from White Harbour, a man with balding brown hair, fat sausage like hands, and a dutiful, if fairly aloof nature, nodded agreeably, again, for what also felt like the thousandth time.

He was a good man, this Hibberd, or at least I'd come to believe that, judging from the few days in my brief service I'd had to form such an opinion of the man. He'd joined our march with the men from White Harbour where he'd worked as an overseer of sorts for the great harbour there. He also seemed to take a rather perverse joy in winding up the Lord of Last Hearth too, so, as I said, a good man, and one I'd quickly snapped up into my service as swiftly as possible, much to the pleasure of Ser Wylis.

"But yer Grace-"

 _Why was it always the fucking Umber's that argued?_ I wondered blearily. _I should have started with a Manderly, they were much more agreeable._

Frustrated beyond measure, I held up a hand to forestall the Greatjon Umber's latest outrage, massaging the bridge of my nose as I sighed wearily. _God, I missed painkillers._

Been a King? It just makes one sigh even more. Trust me, in the limited time i'd been king, what was in all probability all of twelve hours in fact, I'd garnered much in the way of first hand experience.

"Lad, yer can't just-"

"Your Grace", Maester Hibberd corrected absently, his aged face puckered in consternation as he focused on the rather hastily written and very messy scrawl scribbled upon the parchment I'd handed over to him at our meetings beginning. Not quite my Magnum Opus, i'd admit. A masterpiece it most certainly was not, but I had spent nearly an hour writing, researching and cross-referencing the bloody thing, despite suffering a killer hangover and having to fight the impromptu urge to either cry, sulk, swear, or some combination of the three. It had been a long morning, and a rather emotional one.

 _King in the fucking North. Bastards_.

"The correct term of address", Hibberd continued, not looking up from his reading and ignoring the look of utter disdain upon my most tallest of Bannerman's face "-is Your Grace."

Lord Umber blustered at that, shooting the rotund Maester a withering glare as he rounded on the man with ill intent. No doubt, I imagined, _to teach that upjumped little seven worshipping rat what's_ -

"Is… is all of this true, Your Grace?"

Umber jolted to a stop, his bushy eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement as I turned to my acting Grand Maester, though I was loath to make such an appointment official so early in the game.

"Is what true?" I asked politely, ignoring the Umber man's questioning look even as Hibberd paled a little, his eyes glancing back over the parchment in his hands.

"This -these, the words on this parchment, Your Grace, these… accusations. Are they true?"

 _More truthful than you can ever imagine_ , I thought wryly, flashing the man a smirk even as I responded. "Does it matter?"

The Maester sputtered. "Does it… does it matter?! Of course it matters! If we send this out by raven it will-"

"Do nothing, nothing at all," I interrupted calmy, recalling at least a dozen different accusations I'd levelled against certain prominent lords and ladies of good king Joffrey's court, and Stannis' court, and Renly's too for that matter. "Any lord or lady who reads that, if we send it via raven alone, will more than likely simply burn it with a dismissive shake of their head and disregard it."

"Then why-"

"Do you either of you know the first rule when engaging an opponent in a prolonged propaganda campaign?" I asked airily, waving a hand dismissively as I turned from the two of them and walked towards my 'desk'. Although that was been rather generous with the term, particularly since it wasn't actually a desk, not that a desk would actually have fit in the tent.

Yes, you heard right. A tent. Not a room. A tent, and not even my own tent. It was still something of a mystery as to whose tent I'd woken up in, but, given the state I'd been in when I'd awoken, I hadn't really cared. Olyvar had been nervously lingering outside and I'd sent him to fetch my two current guests as quickly as he could. _We'd had business to discuss_ , _and very little time to discuss it in_.

Lord Umber blinked uncomprehendingly at my question whilst the good Maester simply stared at me baffled. "I'm afraid i'm not particularly familiar with that term, Your Grace," Hibberd admitted with a frown.

"It's basically when you use information to influence an audience, in this particular instance, the smallfolk, in order to further your chosen agenda, most often by presenting facts selectively in order to encourage a particular belief or by using loaded language to produce an emotional rather than a rational response to the information that is presented," I explained matter of factly. Hibberd started to look thoughtful, reappraising the document in his hand as he mulled over my words.

"...and the first rule?" Lord Umber asked gruffly, temporarily putting aside his attempts to coerce me into a coronation as his eyes flickered over to the parchment in my acting Maester's hands wonderingly.

"He who slings the first mud has the first advantage," I replied, flashing the fidgeting man a quick grin over my shoulder as I approached my work station.

Although again, it must be said, I was being rather generous with my words. The 'desk' as I called it, was a sloped, portable, wooden writing surface, the tiny little letters _DM_ carved into a corner -the initials of its maker perhaps? Regardless, it was the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a museum or as a prop in a victorian era television drama. It was also knaff. I'd spent the first two hours just trying to get the damn thing comfortable while I attempted to use the wretched thing, and the Quills! Don't get me started on the bloody-

"I assume then," Hibberd said, his words sounding slow, calculated, as if carefully chosen and more than a tad hesitant. "-that very little of these 'accusations' can be proven true?"

"Very few of them can be proven false, either," I retorted shiftily, shuffling a little as the elderly man scrutinized me intently. "And you know how fast rumours travel," I said with a grin. "-especially the juicy kind. Copy a hundred or so of these out and them nail them in every town, village and hamlet from here to Stony Shore and the smallfolk will do the rest."

At that, Maester Hibberd, it must be said, went aghast. "A few hundred?" he wheezed, looking for all the world like I'd just whacked him over the head with a wooden mallet. "B-b-but that would take weeks! Months maybe, Your Grace. You can't-"

"I'm not asking you to do it all by yourself man. Riverrun has a Maester of its own, does it not? A Maester Vyman if I recall my mother's stories correctly, surely he can help you shoulder this burden?"

"But, but… two of us? _Hundreds_ of copies, I-it would still take-"

"Oh for god's sake," I found myself interrupting, my patience at a wits end as I cut through the mans stammering. "There are hundreds of peasants seeking refuge in my grandfathers keep are there not? Surely some of them can _read_ , write even? Conscript them, offer them jobs as clerks and scribes, lord knows their families could probably use the wages given what I assume has happened to their livelihoods."

"Regardless," I continued, ignoring the White Harbour natives flabbergasted look even as I ploughed ahead. "-our shiny new kingdom is young, built on unsteady foundations, and has very little historical precedence to support its rather… enlarged state. We currently have no form of established government, no bureaucracy to see our will is done, nothing in place to support my eddicts other than the supposed loyalty of my bannermen. This needs to change, and quickly."

The Greatjon looked a little dour at my proclamation, perhaps even a little envious as the two brain cells I suspected he owned finally came to the same conclusion. Hibberd was getting an official appointment while he and his coronation… were not, well not yet anyway. Not, if as I suspected, he refused to let the subject drop.

"To that end, Maester Hibberd," I said, casting a warning look at the bristling giant of House Umber. "-I'm officially naming you my Master of Scribes, and charging you with the creation of a governmental department responsible for the copying, writing and distribution of information for the crown's use. Further-"

"Your Grace!"

"Not now, Lord Umber," I said with another sigh, holding up a hand as my giant of a vassal blustered. "Further, while Maester Vyman does indeed have duties to my lordly grandfather and uncles, he is, in his spare time, to be considered a temporary asset of your newly created department, and is to put his talents to use in your service when available. Any questions?"

"Your Grace! About-"

"My Lord Umber, I'll address your concerns in a moment, please," at my near growl the giant of a man shut up, again, though he was still scowling.

Hibberd, on the other hand, looked rather baffled, as if he couldn't quite grasp what was happening to him. _The poor sod_. I knew how he felt.

"A-and _this_?" He said with a choked out wheeze, wafting the parchment in his hand like it was the most offensive piece of literature he'd ever had the misfortune of discovering existed in the world. "What do we do with this… this?"

"First, focus on recruiting a pool of literate men _and women_ for your new post, then-"

" _Women_ ," came the expected protestation. "Your Grace, surely you can't mean to-"

"I can't mean to what, Maester Hibberd? _We are at war_! The men will be at war, sieging castles, fighting battles, pillaging enemy lands, you know, that sort of thing. Should I limit the amount of soldiers I can put out onto the field, further increasing the discrepancy of numbers arrayed against us, when there are perfectly good woman who _can read and write_ , or at least be taught to, readily available?"

Hibberd gulped, a sour expression twisting across his face, while Lord Umber attempted to stifle a laugh at the mans dressing down.

 _God_ s, I thought wearily, pinching the bridge of my nose, _I'd forgotten just how_ _poorly women tended to be thought of in the past_.

"W-well, t-the Seven say that-"

"Oh bollocks to your ruddy Seven," Lord Umber grumbled mutinously, startling me out of my thoughts. "-the King gave you an order man! _Men an' women_ , 'e said. You got a problem with tha'?"

"B-but, the holy scriptures! All agree that a woman's place is-"

"WHEREVER THE KING BLOODY SAYS IT IS!"

"My Lord, dear Maester Hibberd," I said hastily, raising both my hands placatingly as I attempted to intercede before things got nasty between the two of them, or rather, any nastier.

"While I appreciate your concerns regarding the fairer sex-" _Which I bloody well didn't, not even remotely._ One didn't grow up in a family with a mother as domineering and successful as mine without garnering a healthy amount of both fear and respect for the opposite gender. "-in this case I fear we have no choice, circumstances been what they are and all."

Hibberd still didn't look very convinced, although he seemed somewhat mollified, if only slightly, by my rather empty platitudes.

"And how will we pay for this… 'department'," he said wearily, the verbal quotation marks practically audible around the word 'department'. "-your, ah, Grace?"

Umber, the bastard, also looked interested.

 _Bugger, I was rather hoping he wouldn't ask that._

"Honestly?" I asked, simultaneously hoping and feeling dismayed when the pair of them nodded. "We won't be, at least not for now, we can pay your scribes in rations and lodgings, the coin we can work out later. Which brings us to the reason I summoned you Lord Umber."

As the burly looking lord turned to me with an inquisitive gaze, he opened his mouth and before he could interject, I swiftly cut him off. "It's not about a coronation."

With a slight wave of my hand and a brief, "My lord, please." I gestured for the burly man to take a seat on a stool to his left. Grudgingly he did so, even as i nudged my 'desk' across the bed and sat down myself, grabbing a rolled up piece of parchment as I did so. Hibberd remained standing, watching the pair of us intently.

"This," I said with as much royal pomp as I could be bothered to muster. "-is for you."

With a surprising amount of hesitancy, or as much hesitancy as a seven and a half foot tall monster can, the Greatjon reached across the space between us and took the profited scroll.

"Well go on then," I urged him, watching as he toyed with the bloody thing. "-read the damn scroll."

With one last curious look at me, the reigning Lord of Last Hearth unfurled my latest proclamation and began to read. His reaction was not the one I'd expected.

"This… ah, lad?"

"My Lord?"

"Lord Treasurer?"

I blinked confusedly. The Greatjon blinked back at me. Hibberd watched the pair of us. Then, finally, the penny dropped.

"Shit," I swore suddenly, grasping around on the bed, my hand scrounging around for the scroll with the half singed end as I realised what had happened. _Talk about cock-ups._

"Lord Treasurer," the Greatjon mumbled, staring down at the parchment in his hands as he tried to come to terms with what he most assuredly thought was his new position.

Thought been the key word there.

Inwardly, I found myself utterly amused, the mental image of the Umber giant sat at a table piled with gold coins, a set of brass scales before him and a mountain of yellowed parchment towerering up around his frustrated angry brow, flitting through my mind before I could resist. It was a nice image, humorous, and for a _brief_ , brief second, I was sorely tempted not to correct the man. To let him stew.

Fortunately, common sense prevailed, if only just.

"Ah, no my Lord, not that one," I said with a straight face, resisting the urge to laugh at the man as I extended the second scroll towards him. "-that one, is for Lord Manderly. Yours is this one."

"No, no, you might as well keep it," I waved the man off, ignoring the proffered scroll as I extended to him his own 'official' appointment. "-you know, since you'll be delivering it to Lord Manderly on your way up north anyway."

"North?" The burly man's brow furrowed, his eyes drifting up from the two scrolls in his hand. "I've just sodding marched south across half o' bloody Westeros," he grumbled. "Why would I be marching back north?"

Hibberd, the bastard, also looked rather interested. Too interested, although his interest looked rather more sinister from where I was sitting, far more so than a loyal maester merely in the service of his 'king' probably had any right to. Or, at least that was my take on it. The circumstances of his arrival and later, his entry into my service were not a secret, nor was the ease in which he had managed to ingratiate himself into my 'inner circle', small and relatively new as it was.

Privately, I suspected the man to be a spy, not a Lannister one, heavens no, but he was definitely an informant of some sort, and almost certainly he was a Manderly one. Wyman Manderly after all, was not a stupid man. Shrewd, yes, fat, most definitely, but he was also very, very dangerous. A thought to keep in mind, even if he was technically a Stark loyalist.

"I need a loyal man in the North, my lord, one that I can trust explicitly," I said with a smile, watching as the giant sat up straighter at the implication that _he_ was the loyal man in question. "-and as my newly appointed Lord Chancellor, you cannot govern this new kingdom of ours on my behalf from the frontlines, now can you?"

"L-Lord… govern. Your Grace?"

"I am formally appointing you, my lord Umber, as Lord Chancellor of the Kingdom of the North and, well the Trident too I suppose, invested with my full authority and power and a mandate to keep the King's peace, draw up new and existing levies for a second host north of the Neck, and to defend our homeland in this army's absence."

"I, ah… Your Grace, I, I don't know what to say-"

"Say thank you, and accept," I offered the flustered man with a raised eyebrow, ignoring his fumbling as he scanned the contents of his scroll incredulously.

"Lord Chancellor?" he mumbled mystified, his eyes squinting as he tried out the title for himself.

"Forgive me my impertiance, Your Grace," Maester Hibberd apologised warily. "-but what exactly *is* a 'Lord Chancellor'?"

 _And there he went again_ , I thought with a sigh, _always asking the awkward fucking questions._

"Well, I suppose it's somewhat like a Hand of the King," I said somewhat vaguely, again ignoring the Greatjon's exclaimed ' _Hand of the King!"_ in the background.

Hibberd's lip's puckered in consternation as he stared curiously at me, as if I was some fascinating species of bug previously unknown. It wasn't a good look on him, not at all, and it made me feel rather uncomfortable to boot.

"Then why not simply use the title already in existence, Your Grace?"

 _Why indeed?_ I thought wryly, noticing that Lord Umber's eyes had risen to watch our impromptu little discussion, even as I floundered for an answer.

I couldn't very well tell the man that I was an imposter from a world far more advanced and superior to this… _shithole_ that I'd landed in. I also couldn't tell the prying Maester that as such an imposter, an imposter with an above average interest in *my* own country's old, and often rather sordid history, that I did in fact have quite a bit of knowledge regarding the various structures, workings and political reforms that my own beloved Blighty had gone through in order to become the constitutional monarchy that we Brit's all knew, loved and openly complained about. Compared to where I had come from, Westeros' whole system of government -effectively decentralised to the max, concentrating what little power and authority the central government had into the hands of seven people, none of whom actually had to have any level of experience, or even competence, in their appointed roles, was a really poor fucking model of government whichever way one might choose to look at it.

Perhaps I was just spoiled, you know? Coming from a world where the majority of ruling governments, whether they were democratic or… not, constitutional monarchies or… _republics_ , all of them were relatively competent(ish), usually well organised, and quite clearly ran rather efficiently (when they wanted to)...

…unlike whatever the fuck you'd call the trainwreck that was the 'Seven Kingdoms', and thus, medieval England was now, for better or worse, the chosen model of government that I was going to strive towards, both because it was, a) achievable given the technology I had at hand, and b) because if it had worked once before, I was confidant it could work again. Mostly…

...hopefully...

Still, my not wanting to tell the White Harbor native any of this was not out of any real desire to spare the man's feelings you understand, but rather, because as a 'noble' born and raised in Westeros, it would have been unheard of, nay, almost impossible for me to have developed such views on my own -not to mention the whole pesky 'travelled from another world' business, and it would only raise further suspicion regarding my 'odd' behaviour these last few weeks.

So, with the truth well and truly out of the question, I was going to go and fall back on what was rapidly becoming my default mode of operation in situations like these… I was going to bullshit my way out of it.

"Well," I started slowly, stroking my chin as I caught the Greatjons gaze with a challenging stare of my own. "-given last night's apparent desire to effectively sever all ties to the south and by extension, the Iron Throne, I rather thought that adopting the trappings of Targaryen monarchical tradition might be a rather poor start for our nascent independence movement. Hence… a fresh start. A new Kingdom, all new trappings, so to speak."

The Greatjon just stared at me for moment, as if he was trying, and failing to decipher the meaning of my words, but surprisingly enough he rallied right on through, and with a gleeful shout he cried, "Hear hear! The King in the North!"

Naturally, his impromptu cheer did not exactly go down as well as he'd probably intended it to. Hibberd frowned, I winced, and while the Greatjon clapped his hands together, an unrepentant look of glee on his face, I congratulated myself on another bullet well dodged, and that, was that. Or so I thought…

Alas, just like the last time I thought i'd managed to dodge the metaphorical bullet, it somehow managed to veer around all on it's own and bite me in the arse, again.

"Yes, well, trappings aside Your Grace, ruling a fief and governing a Kingdom are hardly the same thing, and while i'm sure Lord Umber is more than capable of fulfilling the duties of this… new office adequately, with respect, might not a more suitable candidate, one with more experience in governance over a large populace be preferable? Perhaps my Lord M-"

"-'Ere now, what exactly do you mean, 'adequately'?"

"Well, I, I was merely-"

"Merely, is it? Merely adequately? The fuck would _your_ kind know of the North, eh Andal? Of the Godswoods? Of the Clansmen, or the-"

"I was simply trying to-"

"I know what you were-"

 _Well there we go,_ I thought with yet another sigh, wearily rubbing the bridge of my nose with a frown, _not two appointments into my new government and already the politicking begins_.

...and sadly, the worst part of it all was, it wasn't as surprising as it probably should have been. History was filled to the brim of the cup with royal courts full of scheming nobles constantly trying to advance their own families positions at the expense of others, and Hibberd?

Well, Hibberd was, as I mentioned earlier, most likely a Manderly plant, and an increasingly annoying one at that, my formerly fond feelings for the man aside.

"-listen here you little Andal fuc-"

"My Lord Umber, that's enough. Peace."

At the sound of my voice, the mans flying insult fell flat, his apropoletic gaze shifting back to me even as I turned my attention onto my 'acting' Maester. "As for you Hibberd, my decision stands, Lord Umber shall muster three hundred good men and install himself in Winterfell as my Lord Chancellor at my-"

"Your Grace, surely-"

"I said enough," I retorted sharply, cutting the man's interruption to pieces. "I understand you have your reservations on the matter, but the truth of the situation at hand is that I need someone I can trust in Winterfell."

At that, Hibberd's mouth opened wordlessly in protest while the Greatjon preened like a eight foot bloody peacock.

"Your Grace," Hibberd started, a dab of perspiration colouring his brow as he shot the smirking Umber giant a particularly scathing look. "My Lord Manderly is a loyal and leal-"

"-bannerman, yes, yes, yes. I get the point, I do, and if you recall backwards my good Maester, you'll remember that Lord Chancellor Umber has in his possession, a letter confirming your master as Lord Treasurer of the Realm. Along with further instructions to found, or rather, reopen the Royal Mint, and begin a series of surveys and assessments on the size, productivity and the populations living upon all of the lands within our new kingdom, no?"

"Ah-"

"-and given the scope, size and delicate nature of the tasks entrusted unto him, do you imagine loyal Lord Manderly will have the time to serve also as my Lord Chancellor, especially given the military commitments I suspect the office will become rather embroiled in, hmm?"

"Military com... -Your Grace, surely you don't expect the war to reach the North proper, do you?"

At the annoyingly perceptive White Harbor native's words, I wanted to wince, badly, because really… _how little he knew..._

Luckily, despite the images of rampaging Ironborn, and a burning Winterfell, and _Ramsey_ fucking _Bolton_ , I managed to suppress the urge, if only just, focusing instead on what wouldn't be, rather than what had been, in another world.

"Well," I said, my voice sounding more than a little strained as I struggled to rid myself of the image of particularly stubborn scene from HBO's _Game of Thrones_. "I don't know if you've realised this, good Maester, but we, as a Kingdom, seem to be lacking one rather important weapon in our collective arsonal-"

I paused for a moment, to collect my thoughts, ignoring my two waiting companions as my mind swirled with possibilities.

 _How was I going to explain the situation without giving myself away?_

Ah… right, that should do...

"A fleet gentlemen, we, both the North, and our Riverlander cousins here in the south, lack a fleet." As Hibberd's brow crinkled, the Greatjon waved me on impatiently, a peculiar glint in his eyes as he waited for me to continue, and buggery on me if that wasn't the first time in this whole conversation that Lord Umber seemed to grasp the gist of my point before my Master of Scribes had.

"To compound this matter further," I went on, "outside of ourselves and Dorne, everybody else does. At Lannisport lies the fleet Lord Tywin rebuilt after the Greyjoy Rebellion was put down, the Reach, and by extension Renly Baratheon, can call upon both the Redwyne and the Hightower fleets. Stannis Baratheon holds the Royal Fleet at Dragonstone and the Ironborn, well, from reports I received back at Winterfell from Lords Glover, Mormont and the Flint of Flint's Finger, it would seem that Balon Greyjoy has rebuilt his Iron Fleet."

Hibberd, to his credit, was looking rather worried now, although I plowed on before he could get another word in. "As such, considering we now have vast stretches of undefended, and unpopulated -in the west coasts case, coastlines, and given we have effectively declared ourselves independent, and probably pissed off all the aforementioned parties as a result… then yes good Maester, I do indeed expect the war to reach the North proper, don't you?"

Hibberd, the poor sot, now resembled a bit of a tomato, so red was his face. Although whether that was a result of me dressing him down like a parent would an unruly child, or simple mortification of not having realised the exact same thing before me, I knew not.

 _Maesters,_ I thought sourly, _think their all so clever, don't they?_

"S-surely not Lord Greyjoy, Y-your Grace?" Hibberd stuttered, his face flushed as he mopped at his brow with _that parchment_. The bastard, I'd worked really hard on that! "He was beaten in the Rebellion and he-"

"-was left alive and well 'nough to nurse a grudge the size of Essos. The spiteful little squid fuck-"

-"surely wouldn't dare assault the North while we still have his heir… would he?"

Watching the pair of them trying to talk over each other was starting to give me a migraine, and not for the first time, I wished I'd woken up in Narnia. Shit like this didn't happen there I was positive. Disney had made the books into fucking films so they couldn't be that bad, right?

 _Fucking Westeros._

Still, we -all three of us, had to get through this meeting at some point, and so, once more I descended unto the breach, with just a tad of hesitance for good measure.

"My Lord, please," I said, again, shooting the Lord of Last Hearth a wry smile, "much as I may share your opinion of the Ironborn as a rule, let's try to stay on topic, shall we?"

The Umber man snorted, but consented, allowing me to focus my attention on the 'Grey Rat' to his right. Hibberd for his part at least, still seemed to be trying to stitch back together his composure, to little avail.

"As for 'Lord Greyjoy," I responded with a scoff, not even bothering to try and hide the derision in my tone. "-we are in fact talking about the same silly cunt that thought it a good idea to rebel against Robert Baratheon at the height of his power, when the other six kingdoms were firmly behind him and he could call on more ships and fleets than the Iron Islands probably have people. I expect a fool to act like a fool, Maester, and Balon Greyjoy is both a fool and a cunt-"

"-surely he wouldn't risk his Heir though, Your Grace! Winterfell holds young Greyjoy as a hostage, to-to attack the North would-"

"-not bother him in the slightest I fear," I replied evenly. "Son or not, Lord Balon has not seen Theon in the better part of a decade, and barely written to him at all in that time, something I, can personally attest to. We cannot, and should not, count on whatever fatherly feelings the Lord Reaver of Pyke _should_ have for his son, when looking towards the greater defence of our new realm. Agreed?"

"I… suppose so, Your Grace."

"Aye, lad. You 'ave the right of it, Yer Grace. Sod the Greyjoy cunts, the lot of 'em!"

"Which brings us round to another threat we potentially face-"

"A-another t-threat, Your Grace?"

"Aye," I said with a downturned twist of my own lips. "Another threat, and perhaps an even deadlier one given the situation."

 _Although by no means the worst..._

"Worse than fucking Lannisters and Squids, Yer Grace? Hah!"

"You scoff, my Lord Umber', I said with a grimace, all traces of levity and lightness gone from my voice as I suddenly realised the enormity of the task ahead of us. All of us. "-but tell me, what do you know of Mance Rayder? The so-called King-Beyond-the-Wall."

At that, Lord Umbers face turned into a new picture in a league all of its own, a dark, gloomy, stormy little picture, and for a brief instance, I almost regretted mentioning the Wildling King to him, but needs must.

"He's a cunt," the burly looking man growled, shifting on his stool as his fists clenched tightly by his side, even as he continued. "-raids 'ave been increasing by the dozens since 'e appeared, one group o' Wildlings nearly carried off me daughter Eddara last time, and it's because of 'im, Mance fucking Rayder. 'E's made the Wildlings bolder than ever, 'e-"

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but who exactly is this Mance Rayder?"

"Who- Mance Rayder! You've don' even know who Mance pissing Rayder is!?'"

"W-well' I-"

"An they say Last Hearth's at the end of the bloody world," the Greatjon grumbled, shooting the flustered Maester a withering look, while Hibberd shot me a pleading one.

"He's a former member of the Night's Watch," I answered the man distractedly, watching from the corner of my eye as the Greatjon mumbled, 'fucking Manderly's, if it's not coin or food they're bloody-'.

"-a wildling who was, at least according to my Uncle Benjen, born beyond the wall and then found and raised a Brother at Castle Black. By all accounts he is now both a deserter and a traitor, and has curried enough influence amongst the varying tribes and clans up there to start calling himself King-Beyond-the-Wall."

Hibberd just frowned. "I've not heard tell of any Wildling King, Your Grace, not a recent one at any rate, nor has Lord Manderly as far as I'm aware. Where did _you_ hear of him?"

With a bit of a forced smile, ignoring the pang of… _something_ that clenched at my chest, I shook my head ruefully. "My uncle Benjen serves as the First Ranger at Castle Black and visited us when King Robert came to Winterfell."

Hibberd nodded.

"Most of the news regarding him is just hearsay at the moment, little more than rumours than anything tangible, but if he decides to follow in his predecessors footsteps, especially with so much of our strength here in the south, well…"

"We'll be buggered," the Greatjon said. And damned if that wasn't the overall feeling that seemed to be floating around the interior of the tent like a great big swollen raincloud, one that all three of us felt like we standing under, without an umbrella, out in the open, with bugger all shelter to be found.

 _And that wasn't even counting our odds against the White Walkers…_

 _Or the fake [maybe?] Aegon and his Golden Company…_

 _Or the crazy Dragon Lady and her… army? Horde?_

 _Or even Euron fucking Greyjoy and his eerie Lovecraftian vibes..._

None of whom I mentioned out loud, but truthfully, when everything was listed out like that, well...

A pretty picture it did not paint. The Greatjon was right. _We were well and truly buggered._

Still, while I might not have appreciated my newfound second chance at life, especially in Westeros of all places, it was still a step above death, and I had no intentions of dying. At least not in the brutal or humiliating methods that seemed so common in this world.

 _Worst case scenario_ , I thought, I'd stick out this 'King in the North' malarkey as long as feasibly possible and make sure I had a well stocked ship manned by a loyal crew at the ready at all times. The Summer Islands, I had read, were rather lovely all things considered, the perfect place for a King-in-Exile to retire, or hide. I'd be like Jalabhar Xho, only in reverse, and without the desire to 'return home' and 'recover my rightful lands'.

Granted, I'd probably have to turn to prostitution to make a living at that point but… hey, work in progress, right? Besides, prostitution was, at least in the Summer Islands, _supposedly_ , at least according to the asoiaf wiki, an honorable profession there, so…

Anyway, putting aside the thought of my eventual retirement and future career, you know, assuming I couldn't squirrel away a little slush fund in the meanwhile, I turned back to the more pressing matters in front of me.

"Well then gentlemen, let us summarize that which has so far been decided upon shall we?"

Both of fellow boon companions, [ _and how cool was it that I could think that and not feel a complete and utter twat?_ ] nodded agreeably, perhaps for the first time ever in sync.

"You, my Lord Umber," I said, pointing at the man. "-are now my Lord Chancellor, with full control over my future Royal Chancelleries and will, in the meanwhile, ensure that our homeland is kept safe and secure through this time of chaos and upheavals, yes? That means keeping the bickering between feuding Houses at a minimum, the Forrester and the Whitehill clans especially. Hell, I expect you to keep at least one eye on the Dreadfort and it's inhabitants at all times. I don't trust Bolton as far as I can fucking throw him, and the mans as ruthless as Tywin Lannister and as slippery as an eel, I wouldn't put it past him to try and take advantage of our absence to aggrandise himself at my more vulnerable bannermens expense. Understood?"

"Aye, Yer Grace, it'll be my pleasure. If the skin weavers put a finger out of line, I'll smash 'em mysen." The gleam in the man's eyes was strangely reassuring, and unexpectedly, another of Maester Luwin's lessons with young Robb Stark sprung to mind.

' _...there's little lost love between the Dreadfort of the Bolton's, young Lord, and those of the Last Hearth and its lands…"_

"Good man," I smirked. "Secondly, however, we need more men. While some of the Clansmen of the Mountains have answered our call to arms, most did not. Why, I care not, but if we're going to succeed in this… this… 'venture' of ours, then they're going to be needed. The Barrow Knights of Barrowton too, and if Lady Dustin starts giving you any problems, remind her of her duties to her liege lord and the fate that awaits traitors."

Lord Umber's smirk widened just a fracture at that, and again, it wasn't hard to see why. The Barrow Knights of the Barrowlands were considered to be something of a… _odd_ bunch at the best of times, more so in the eyes of their fellow Northmen.

You see, from what I'd managed to piece together through a mixture of my own questions and my- _Robb's_ memories, the Barrow Knights were _technically_ anointed and swore their oaths in the light of the Seven, while in practise, well, they still worshipped trees. As I said, they were an odd bunch, and for a Kingdom like the North that was saying something. The Faith, if it ever actually bothered to look into it's 'investment' once in a while, you know, actually having to physically tear it's gaze away from Oldtown and Kings Landing long enough to see how their whole 'convert the pagan Northmen' programme was going, would surely be horrified by the rather blatant heresy that was prevalent throughout that particular region of the North.

 _Well, if you could call forsaking an entire religion once you'd gotten what you wanted out of it heresy, I suppose._

"And the Squids, lad?"

"Ah," _the Squids, hmmm._ Truthfully, there was very little that could actually be done to prevent the initial loss of territory to the Ironborn should they choose to go 'al la viking' parallel to their cannon counterparts. Not in the short amount of time I had readily available to me at least.

There were three reasons for this primarily, and they were thus;

Firstly, Moat Cailin was a dump. A run-down, swamp-ridden ruin. At best there were three towers still capable of hosting garrisons, the walls had long since sunk into the surrounding bogs, and while it was still a formidable barrier on its southern face, its northern face was… less so. Add in it's close proximity to the Fever River and, well… cannon, anyone?

Secondly was, as previously mentioned, the North's entire west coast. It was poorly populated, dotted with small fishing villages and little farming hamlets further inland. There were no great castles, or forts or defensive works of any real use, not since the Fisher King's had been obliterated by my- _Robb's_ ancestors and their lands divided up between the Mormonts, the Glovers, the Dustins and the Ryswell's.

...and thirdly? We, the Starks, the North as a whole, whoever you wanted to define as 'we', had no fleet. Well, not one of any real worth deserving of the title. Not since that pilloc Brandon [i.e. _the Burner_ ] decided to do the stupidest thing in what I privately suspected might very well be the 'History of Stupidity'.

Nope, if Balon Greyjoy had been serious when he told Theon [in the books, or the televised series, I wasn't quite sure which] that they were preparing for an invasion of the North, and _if_ he followed through with it in this world, then nothing we [again, as Starks, the North, etc.] could do would really change things in the short term.

Which I readily told my grim faced Lord Chancellor, even as he frowned. Again.

"It would only be temporary, my Lord," I admitted solemnly. "From a historical standpoint the Iron Islands lack a sufficient population to effectively garrison everything, and the North is vast. With a second host ready and assembled north of the Neck we can counter them at our leisure and keep them confined to the coast for the most part."

Umber didn't look any more reassured by my matter-of-fact statement than before, and perhaps, for the first time since his appointment, he was truly starting to grasp the importance of the task I was entrusting unto him. Well, one could hope. Regardless, I suppose he really couldn't do a worse job of things than that marvelously inept trio of Bran, Rodrick and Luwin ala cannon. Although that might be being a tad too harsh on my- _Robb's_ little brother, you know, him been a child and all that.

"Regardless," I said with small smile, determined to finish with this damnable meeting once and for all. "-before you leave for your new post, ravens will be sent to White Harbor instructing Lord Manderly to raise a new force of men, arms and craftsmen and send them to Moat Cailin to help reinforce that old ruin, it if falls were as good as doomed in the long run. Other ravens will be dispatched to Winterfell informing the household there of my intentions and your new position, along with instructions for Deepwood Motte, Bear Island and Torrhen's Square to remain vigilant, bolster their own defences and keep a wary eye on the seas and rivers near them. With any luck my Lord, by the time you arrive in the North, preparations for the North's seaborne defence will already be well under way, allowing you to focus on more pressing matters."

"And this… this Mance Rayder, Your Grace? What of him?" Hibberd finally asked, his rather frazzled eyebrows rising just a tad higher than previously. "Obviously, it would seem you've put quite a bit of thought into how best to defend our home should the worst indeed occur, but-"

"Mance Rayder is not an immediate concern," I waved the Maester off. "In the future, possibly, but right now, no. Besides which, between him and us stands a great big bloody wall of ice and the Night's Watch. Even in their current dilapidated state, the Black Brothers are more than capable of fending off the buggers for a while, and if it comes to the worst, well… Lord Umber will be there to beat the bastards back, aye?"

"Aye!" The aforementioned Lord agreed cheerfully, while Hibberd nodded wearily. Evidently he, unlike the Greatjon who looked positively ecstatic, appeared to have had enough of our impromptu little 'small council' meeting for the day and just wanted to bugger off. It was, I noted somewhat wrly, a sentiment I shared.

Thankfully, despite all the interruptions and the arguments I'd pretty much managed to discuss what I had set out to, and thus, we could all finally leave. Umber to do… well whatever it was he did in his spare time, Hibberd to start recruiting my nascent bureaucracy, and me… I was going back to bed. My head was fucking killing me.

Unfortunately for me and master Hibberd, it wasn't to be.

"Well," the booming giant of a man said with a grin, his good cheer at the prospect of a couple of potential wars all of his own plain for all to hear. "-as Lord Chancellor, and afore I go north, I have an urgent matter all o' me own that needs to be discussed, Yer Grace."

With a long suffering sigh and a slight stiffening of my spine, I turned about face and glanced at the Greatjon questioningly, "Yes?"

"About yer coronation lad-"

 _For fuck's sake does he never give it a bloody rest_?

"It's Your Grace," Hibberd corrected irritably.

"-yer can't jus-"

I held up a hand and the giant of a man's bluster died down in an instant, even if his stare didn't.

"A coronation now would be both pointless and an extravagant waste of resources, in both food and time."

"Pointless! Yer a King, Yer Grace, the men expect-"

"We have Tywin Lannister on the run," I interjected swiftly, cutting off the protests of my loyalist, biggest, most meddlesome vassal before he could start. _Again_. "Right now he's trapped, here, in the Riverlands. We've effectively cut off his supply lines, he has no reinforcements, and depending on how well Lord Glover's little distraction worked, he has three choices. He can either retreat east into the Crownlands, surrendering the Riverlands to us and putting even more pressure on Kings Landings probably already poor food reserves. He can flee west, holding a defensive position near the Golden Tooth, again surrendering the Riverlands to us and leaving Kings Landing wide open to attack. Or, and more likely his preferable option, he can find himself a nice big castle to house his army and survey his options. Right now we have the initiative and we need to press our advantage, and soon, before we lose momentum."

Umber looked agreeable enough to my argument but still he persisted. _The twat._ "A few days surely wouldn't hurt things too much, eh? As you yerself said, Yer Grace, we've got the Old Lion by the tail."

 _Aye_ , I thought sourly. _So did the original Robb Stark, in the beginning, and look how that turned out._

"The men won't like marching so bloody soon lad, they need rest, they've just fought two battles. An' a coronation would help-"

"There's not going to be any bloody coronations Lord Umber!" I growled in frustration, cutting the man off mid sentence, and silencing the tent in an instant.

Maester Hibberd cocked an eyebrow in surprise at my outburst while the Greatjon merely frowned. Again. It was, to my rather bitter amusement, something he was starting to do nearly as much I was sighing. War really did bring out the worst habits in everyone.

Still, it wouldn't do to offend the man too much, especially since I was kind of banking on him to keep the North in one piece. He was loyal, after all, even if he was a colossal pain in the arse.

"I understand your desire to make last night's proclamation…" I fished around for a suitable word, "more official, my lord." Which was a complete and utter lie by any definition. I was bloody furious with the man, and his men, and all the other men, and the Mormonts, and everyone even remotely involved in last night's whole debacle. But, well, spilt milk and all that.

"Truly, I do", I continued, ignoring the sceptical look on Hibberd's face -at a guess I supposed the man had heard of my reaction to the Greatjon's proposal late last night. "But now is not the time for such things."

The Lord of Last Hearth's expression lightened some but it didn't stop him. "The men will expect-"

"They will expect pomp, and mead and they'll expect a feast," I finished grimly. "I know. Just like I also know that we can't afford it."

More protests were about to issue forth before I rubbished them with another shake of my head. "I'm not talking about coin, Lord Umber. Food. Food is what I'm talking about."

Umbers face puckered at that, frustration creeping across his giant features as the Maester nodded understandingly.

"You fear depleting the harvest stores any further than they already have been, Your Grace?"

"I do. Winter is coming, my lord Umber, if you'll pardon my pun. The North has never been as fertile or productive as its more southron neighbors, and with Tywin Lannister having torched the southern riverlands, our new kingdom stands on the precipice of major food shortages in the future."

In an instant the Lord of Last Hearth started cursing; the Lannisters, westerlanders, mostly just at southrons in general really, as understanding finally dawned upon the man as the proverbial penny dropped.

As had become unofficial protocol whenever the man veered off into profanity, I ignored him, turning my attention back onto the bed I had seated myself on, trying to ignore the discomfort my backside was starting experience.

Who the fuck knew you could miss something so insignificant as springs? _Fucking Westeros_.

"-shit's gold. Lannister cunts."

Seriously, first it was the beer, and now the lack of springs in my bed?

God, I was so screwed. Fuck printing presses and gunpowder, the first thing I was inventing was springs. A few more nights like last night and I'd probably start considering suicide as a viable alternative.

 _Fucking Westeros._

"-plan?"

"Hmm?"

Belatedly, I realised Lord Umber had stopped his swearing and had instead devoted his entire energies towards making me feel as small as possible, by staring at me. Intently.

Hibberd coughed discreetly and I looked at him quizzingly. "I asked, Your Grace, if you have a plan? Evidently, you seem to have a rather good grasp of the situation at hand, and while your prudence does you credit, I fear it may not sit well with your vassals." Discreetly, he motioned towards the Greatjon, who also now gazed at me intently, again, as if I were a specimen of some fascinating species previously unknown to him. _Which was getting really fucking annoying._

"Ah."

A plan? Who the buggery did he think he was talking to? Of course I had plan! It just wasn't a very good one, or even a full one… or even twelve percent of one.

Okay, so it was more of a general idea rather than an _actual_ plan, but it still counted.

Hopefully.

"Your Grace?"

"I have a plan", I announced decidedly, face straight and pose relaxed. I could do this. I could definitely do this. All I needed to do was...

 _Act like a King, act like a King, act like a-_

"You do?"

At the sound of the new voice, which was neither male, old, or even remotely attempting to reign in its annoyed undertone, the three of our heads whipped to the opening of the tent in surprise, just in time to observe our newest arrivals as they entered.

The Greatjon winced, Maester Hibberd jumped, and quietly, I swore.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace", my squire squarked embarrassedly, his face a beet red, as he was bodily shoved aside by the doubter herself. "Lady Mormont insisted on seeing you, wouldn't take no for an answer."

With a motion of my hand, I waved his apologies off. _Bloody Mormont's, got no sodding patience, none of them._

"Of course I have a plan", I retorted indignantly, watching my Frey squire right himself even as the she-bear brazenly waltzed into the tent as if she owned the damnable thing. "I have a plan so cunning you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel," I went on, unable to help myself even as the classic quote slipped past my mouth.

Olyvar blanched, the Greatjon laughed and the Lady Mormont raised an unamused eyebrow pointedly. It didn't take long for realisation to hit me like a slap to the face with a wet fish.

"Er… no offense Olyvar."

"N-none taken, Your Grace."

Needless to say, my current abode been so tiny, the tent was getting rather cramped.

"What are you bloody doing here anyway?" I snapped irritably, feeling rather vindicated in my irritation given the fact that the last time the woman had been in fairly close proximity to me, she'd lobbed rocks at my lordly visage.

Dacey's annoyed frown turned sour. "What do _you_ mean, 'What am I doing here', it's _my_ tent!"

 _Wha?_

"What do you mean, it's _your_ tent?"

"It's my tent!" She insisted.

It was, with a creeping sense of horrified realisation, that I put two and two together. _It really was her tent. DM_ wasn't an artist's signature, or whatever the medieval equivalent was, it somebody's initials. _Dacey Mormont's initials._

 _Shit._ No wonder the lass was looking pissed, she'd probably spent the night sleeping under a tree. _Or in Riverrun_ , I thought sourly, regretting the fact that I'd not retained even enough wits to make it to the chamber moth- _Lady Catelyn_ had most likely set aside for me.

 _Well._ There was only one thing for it.

"Olyvar", I growled, making the nervous youth flinch despite his few years on me.

"Your Grace?" the lanky looking lad wheezed, looking at the furious She-bear as she glared at the pair of us.

"Why? Why in all the Seven Hells did you lead me here? I trusted you!"

Olyvar's eyes widened comically as he started stammering denials. Was it a little cowardly to throw my squire to the wolves? Yes. Did I regret doing so? Not even remotely.

"A-actually, Y-your Grace, you, you kind of stumbled in here last night and wouldn't come out."

Vaguely, it was all making a very foggy kind of sense, not that I was going to admit that out loud. With how furious the Mormont chick was looking, somebody was going to pay for what had happened, and let's face facts. It wasn't going to be me. I was a King! And Olyvar was getting thrown under the bus, whether he deserved it or not.

"-was wonderin why the tent was so small," I heard the Greatjon mumble, even as I figured somebody had to ask the all important question nobody wanted to voice. "Well, where's my tent then?"

The Greatjon offered me a shrug. "Don't look at me lad," he said with a grin. "-was your squire that brought me here. I thought this _was_ your tent, even if it is a wee small."

"It's _my_ tent!"

"Yes, yes, yes, we've already established that, my lady", I waved off the outraged outburst with a dismissive wave. "What I want to know, is if I already had a tent erected, then how the flying fuck did I end up in this one? Olyvar?"

I already knew of course, or I was to beginning to suspect. Subconsciously, my last coherent memory was of departing the disastrous war council the previous evening and ordering my unwanted squire to fetch me some wine, some very strong wine. The memories after that were not so clear, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened. My alcohol tolerance was shit, and everybody knew it. Well, everybody in my old world had known it. I guess some things had carried over into this world after all, though that was a thought far from comforting.

"I-I, you were drunk, Your Grace."

The Greatjon snorted.

"-very drunk. You wanted to lay down, and when you saw the tent-"

With a heavy sigh I held up my hand to stall the inevitable embarrassment that was sure to follow. Stories involving drunken persons were always embarrassing. I didn't need my bannermen hearing _that_ kind of shit, I was deep enough in it already.

"Well, where _is_ my tent?"

Olyvar looked uneasily over at the Northern warmaiden and winced. "I'm not sure it is your tent any more, Your Grace."

Something about the way he said those words didn't settle well with me, not at all. The growing smirk on the face of Lady Mormont wasn't helping matters any either.

"Wait a minute", I breathed out, shooting a sharp look in the direction of the tents opening. "If this is _your_ tent, where did you sleep?"

Olyvar flinched, and that was damn near answer enough. It was rather obvious where she'd slept.

Jutting her chin up daringly, the Heiress of Bear Island sniffed disdainfully. "You stole my tent, so I stole yours."

 _She stole my…_

"That's _my_ tent", I cried out in shock, unwittingly parroting the very words I'd been a recipient of not minutes ago.

"You _stole my tent!_ "

"Borrowed", I denied flatly, faking outrage beyond measure at her cheek. "Besides which, it's all Olyvars fault."

The tent descended into an embarrassed sort of silence at that. Olyvar was shuffling impatiently in the entryway, alternating between casting the mormont bird wary looks and shooting me betrayed ones. The Greatjon was looking utterly amused, and it was, I noted surprisingly, an expression mirrored on the face of my acting maester. Which was surprising in and of itself really, considering the man hadn't so much as cracked a smile since we'd met.

Mormont though… she still looked pissed, not quite so much as she had in the beginning, but, she was still angry. Even a man with as little experience with the fairer half of the Human race as me could spot that.

"Well!?"

"Well what?" I snapped back, still sat down on her bed, in _her_ tent, glaring back at her. Don't get me wrong, I was definitely at fault here, I knew it, she knew it, we all knew it, but I'd be damned if I was going to give voice to it.

I didn't want to be a King, but I'd become one nonetheless, and King's did not apologize. Or at least I was pretty sure they didn't.

"If your finished sitting there like a log, is there any chance I can have _my_ tent back?"

The scathing tone in which the Lady Dacey asked that question, was decidedly uncalled for I reckoned, so too was the name calling, but I decided to take to take the high road. I was a King.

"Were a little bit busy at the moment," I replied grandly, flashing the woman what I could only describe as my most charming smile. Which was true, of sorts, _we were_ busy, but there was also another reason I was loath to leave my canvas haven.

 _The King in the North_.

In here, I was just Robb, but out there? After last night? Nope. King I might be, but I was going to hold off on confronting the gigantic cock-up that was last night's war council for as long as I could get away with it. Fuck em, fuck em all… Dacey Mormont chief among em!

"You know how it is," I explained, "new Kingdom, lots of little things to be done, grand plans to be laid down, proj-"

"In _my_ tent?"

Ignoring her prickly interruption, I noticed the worried frown Lord Umber shot at her and grew worried in turn. _What's he so worried about?_

"It's a very nice tent, my lady," I complimented her, my voice growing decidedly weaker as I noticed her eyes narrow and her fingers start itching towards her mace. A brutish, ugly great thing, all coarse iron and aged leather handle wrappings. It looked rather painful.

By this point, my double dealing turncoat of a squire had decided that discretion was evidently the better part of valour and had begun backing away, out of the tent. Lord Umber was looking like he was about to follow him, him and Hibberd both.

"Listen here Stark", the raven haired woman growled, blowing an errant lock of her fringe out of her eyes, as she stomped menacingly closer towards the bed. "King you may be, but this is _my bloody tent!"_

The Greatjon stood abruptly, shooting me an apologetic look as he did so, and it was with a sickly feeling I realised the bastard was preparing to run.

 _Cunts,_ I thought appreciatively, spotting Maester Hibberd slowly backing out towards the tent's flaps on the rest of the tents occupants tails. _Fucking traitors_.

"-nd I need a bath and a change of clothes," her words trailed off as she stopped before me, her eyes shooting me a _look_ as I stared worriedly up at her.

Now, while I wouldn't say she was definitely in need of a shower - _bath,_ I corrected myself mournfully, thinking of yet another great delight that would now forever be denied me -the Lady Mormont was most definitely in need of a change of clothes. Or armour, or whatever the fuck she wore when she wasn't bashing in faces and stabbing people in the chest.

Strangely enough though, I mused, with a rather detached sense of morbid wonder, the crusted bloodstains on her chainmail didn't do all that much to detract from her beauty. Kind of made her look all the more appealing really.

"...and I assume you'd like to change now? Not in say… ten minutes?"

"GET OUT OF MY BLOODY TENT!"

Surprisingly enough, the four of us really, really didn't need to be told twice, even if I did need to run a little faster on account of my companions head start.

 _Bastards._

* * *

The first glows of the early morning sun were only just visible above the gently sloping foothills of the Pendric Hills in the distance.

Hastily, as I stumbled out of the Lady Mormont's tent on the coattails of my turncloak companions, my eyes slammed shut of their own accord, blocking out the early morning rays, as I took a moment to right myself.

Evidently, been a King did not make one immune to the wrath of an angry woman. Not that I could really blame her. I'd be pissy too if someone knicked me out of my tent and forced me to sleep in their larger, softer, far more comfortable bed. Take note of the sarcasm, eh?

Suddenly, as if summoned by my disaperaging thoughts of her, the canvas behind my head rippled with the impact of an object thrown towards me. A goblet of some sort I reckoned, or perhaps my drinking horn, though I was loath to try my luck reclaiming the wretched thing. More so after the hole it had seemingly helped me dig myself into last night.

 _Fucking Westeros._

Swallowing my reluctance to move any further from my oh so recently liberated 'happy place', I glanced out around at the camp and winced inwardly.

 _Tents_ , was the first thought that came to mind, _lots and lots of tents._ Hundreds of them truth be told, perhaps even thousands -I wasn't really in the mood to count, all of them stretching as far as my eyes could see, mostly erected in straight lines although a few, it must be said, did wander haphazardly into the camp pathways. It was a horribly sobering sight, and looking out at it for what might very well have been the half a hundredth time, it still was. Two weeks had not yet lessened the effect it had on me.

It simply made everything all too real. _I was in Westeros._

Few people were up and about. _Probably still sleeping off the party last night_ , I thought with a grunt, idly wishing I could join the bastards, provided I could actually find _my_ tent.

"Well, that could have gone worse," the Greatjon laughed, attempting to discreetly wipe a thin sheen of sweat from his brow.

 _Worse?_ I thought agape, my mouth dropping down into a rather passable imitation of my little sisters formerly alive pet goldfish. _He thinks that could have gone worse?_

Maester Hibberd evidently seemed to share my opinion on the matter if his scowl was any indication.

"Well," the Greatjon said, his good cheer unrepentant in the face of our less than sterling agreement. "-it could have been worse. A lot worse. Never does well to make a she-bear angry, Yer Grace."

I opened my mouth to retort that it wasn't quite my fault, but in fact Olyvar, my squires fault, but another voice beat me to the silence.

"Av a good night, Yer Grace?"

 _Oh for fucks sake…_ _please, please tell me nobody saw me coming out of 'her' tent, pleas-_

" _Hron, what are you doing?_ " a young, strangled sounding voice yelped from some ways behind me, his tone sounding equal parts exasperated and horrified.

 _Well… bugger._

" _-are you trying to get us eaten?_ "

 _Eaten?_ _Wha?_

Attempting my best to wrestle the confused and no doubt mildly embarrassed expression on my face, I looked up again at the faces of my newly minted Lord Chancellor and Master of Scribes and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Eaten," I muttered quietly, rounding on the giant of a man in front of me. "Lord Umber, why do my men think their going to be eaten?"

Behind me, I could hear a choking sound, and the slap of what I could only imagine was a palm against face.

As the Lord of Last Hearth struggled for an answer, I found myself wondering, just _what kind of a fucking army was i running?_

-oo00oo-

* * *

 **A/N:**

Well, it took quite a bit longer than I originally planned, but at last, I have updated! The story is not dead, or abandoned, or left by the wayside of a very busy motorway. Whohoo!

Truth be told, this chapter was more or less wrote weeks ago. Since then, it's been edited, rewritten, re-edited, chopped to pieces, re-rewritten, and i'm still not entirely happy with it even now, but what the hell. It's as good as I can get it without throwing the whole rotten thing away and starting again. WHICH I AM NOT DOING!

Anyway, it's a little conversation heavy, and has even less in the way of action, so… yeah. That. My apologies.

The chapter was also meant to be a little bit longer, a couple of thousand words longer truth be told. Words that I have already put to keyboard, in fact. Alas, it was from a third person perspective, covering the events of the chapter from outside of the tent and meant to expand upon the worldbuilding of the story and introduce a couple of new characters for a ongoing side-plot I was working on. Needless to say, it didn't work, or flow well. Or at least, not well enough for my liking.

Thus, I have moved on to Plan B. This, is now Chapter Two. The three thousand words or so I already wrote will be reworked into a sort of 'Interlude' that will be posted after this (Hopefully sometime next week!) and explore a few events I had intended for Chapter Three, and the *real* Chapter Three will follow on from that (Back in the First Person Perspective) once I get around to writing it. Hopefully.

Now while that *is* the plan, and I'd love to give people a more accurate schedule for updates and what not, realistically I fear it would only lead to disappointment as I'm terrible with deadlines. So... yeah. There is a plan, but it's a rather shit one.

* * *

Now to answer a few pressing questions that I have noticed reviewers asking.

 **Pairings:**

As far as the pairings in this story go, this is not a 'harem' kind of story. Kings, in real life, tended to have mistresses, sometimes multiple ones at the same time. Sometimes because they were unhappily married, sometimes because they were arses, sometimes because it was expected of them and others just because they could. This is the direction I am attempting to steer towards. It's also my attempt at fixing something I often find annoying in 'Self-Insert' stories, i.e. 'Modern-21st-Century-Western-Guy' finds himself betrothed or married to a random stranger and had absolutely no problem with it. If I was put in that kind of position, I would freak out, and then probably refuse, and probably cause myself no end of grief, and if in the end I did consent, it would neither be happily nor with the intention of remaining unhappy if there was a *viable* alternative.

To summarize: While there are multiple pairings planned in this story (For the SIRobb), there will be no 'happy group' marriage. Roslin will be Queen, and as many queens before her, both fictional and historical, she will have to put up with an unfaithful husband and lump it (Although not without a fight or two). As for the reviewer who asked about Arianne, Asha, Margaery and a certain Dragon Queen we all know and love… there are plots and plans for all the aforementioned ladies, and unfortunately, none of them involve Robb Stark in the romantic sense.

* * *

Anywho, that's about it from me until I rework that damnable 'Interlude' of mine. *Shudders*. Hopefully I'll be updating it sometime next week… but, well… I'll do my best.

Tally Ho!


	3. Interlude I

Interlude I - Army Life

Life in the army, Sigrid had decided rather early on, was terrible. It was cold, it was dirty, the food was awful, and the stew he found himself frowning down at was by far the worst of it so far. It was awful. Completely and utterly fucking awful, and despite his parents hard-drilled lessons on the importance of not wasting food, he found himself tipping it onto the ground without preamble.

 _Better to forage for berries than eat… that_ , he thought glumly, staring down at muddy green sludge that was apparently considered 'stew' by the… well by ' _her'_.

 _Not that Ingun had ever really been able to cook_ , he thought miserably. _There was a reason nobody ever ate at the Tall Pine,_ and it wasn't the Innkeeper's fault _._

"Not gonna break your fast, lad?"

At the sound of Hron's voice, Sigrid looked up, guilty expression and all.

"I-I'm not that hungry", Sigrid lied, his stomach betraying his words even as it rumbled in protest. Defiantly, he nudged the now empty bowl to the side of his stump with his foot, his youthful eyes meeting the amused blue of his morning companion.

Hron just snorted contemptuously at him. "You don' need to be all polite and well mannered 'ere lad, army food is always shite. Twas in the war with the Greyjoy, an' in the Rebellion afore tha'."

"Though i'll admit," he went on. "- _that_ lass 'as managed to lower the quality even more than I though wa' possible."

Sigrid smiled thinly, nervously rubbing his hands as Hron continued, "Your first war ain't it?"

"Er… y-yes."

"Thought so," the lumbering brute of a man grunted thoughtfully, scrutinising Sigrid from top to bottom in a way he thought a visitor might a line-up of whores in a brothel. It was a rather unflattering comparison, and he found himself not caring for it. Not one bit.

"Do, do you think we'll win? The war, I mean", the Deepwood Motte native asked hopefully, his thoughts of whores surprisingly, and rather worryingly reminding him of the sun kissed locks of golden hair he'd been forced to leave behind when the call to muster had been sounded. _So soft, so silky, so…_

"Nobody wins in a war lad, nobody," Hron scoffed, pointing the stew laden spoon grasped within his fingers in Sigrid's direction, the green… _goop_ upon its surface wobbling precariously as he did so.

Sigrid, who had been on the cusp of a dream like world all of his own, a makeshift fantasy where at last he had triumphed over his most hated rival, Karl, the millers son, and won his most beautiful Yvaine's affections, frowned petulantly.

"Course they do", he retorted hotly, the conjured image of his lady love dissipating before his very eyes and transforming into the less than pleasing visage of his childhood hero and current companion, "King Robert won against the Dragons didn't he, and the Greyjoy's too!"

"Aye lad, the high an' mighty might 'win' the wars", the veteran warrior conceded with a grimace, spooning another mouthful of 'stew' into his mouth. "But me and you, folks like us, if the Gods are kind, we get to go 'ome with a few more scars on our face and a couple more coppers in our 'ands. If not," he shrugged. "-we get a nice ditch to rot in."

Sigrid didn't like the sound of that one bit, not at all, and not just because of the image it presented.

It was, after all, he thought, a very different, and much more cynical portrayal of war than he was used to. Back home, in the town he had born in, nestled at the foot of the ancestral seat of House Glover as it was, there were more than a few veterans of past wars. Men who spent their twilight years singing bawdy songs of glorious battle against the forces of the 'Dragons', of righteous causes and heroic deeds, men of vast experience and skill who fought against the Greyjoys in the rebellion years after even that.

Sigrid would know, he'd spent the better part of his evenings as a youth sat amidst their ranks in the Mead Hall as the stories had been told and the tales spun, much to his father's stern disapproval.

 _Don' go filling your head with nonsense boy_ , his da' would grumble at him always, urging him to focus on his work. _We Long-Manes breed horses, so we do, get your 'ead out of the sky and 'elp me get this one settled, eh?_

His mother was less critical, always attempting to try and soothe his father's gruffness with her own, softer words.

Neither of them had been pleased when he answered the summons to muster. His da' had been stoic, disapproving, his face as solid and unmoving as the Northern Mountains the clansmen called their home. His mother had simply cried.

 _You stay alive_ , she'd sobbed into his shoulder, arms wrapped fiercely around his neck while his own hands tightened on the reigns of the horse his 'da had grudgingly allowed him to take.

 _Better a free-rider in the Horse of an army than a footman in a shieldwall,_ he'd grunted with a frown, _Highborn at least care 'bout the Horse._

Sigrid hadn't really understood what his da' had meant, not at the time, he'd just nodded agreeably. He was a hard man his da', a man of few words who-

"Crone's fucking tit's! I can't eat anymore of Ingun's damn stew. I jus' can't," Hron suddenly cried, snapping Sigrid from his thoughts as the burly looking man picked out a leaf of some sort from the spoonful of stew he'd shoveled into his mouth, throwing down his bowl with a disgusted gesture and a nasty scowl, frowning at his 'charge'. "Now's I don' mind a simple stew now an' then, who doesn't? But Ingun can't cook for buggery, and 'er stew's shite. Too many fucking 'erbs, too many damn 'erbs."

Sigrid thought the offending bit of herbage looked rather more like a leaf than an actual herb, but he held his tongue, watching as Hron threw the aforementioned bit of greenery on the floor with more than a little wrath.

It really was easier for everyone this way, he'd found. Hron could be a blighter to argue with at the very best of times, let alone when he was in one of his 'moods'.

He did have a point about Ingun though, for while she was a lovely lass, the unfortunate mess that was her left ear aside, that is, she'd quickly proven herself almost as great a threat to the men she 'cooked' for as a wall of Lannister swords, at least in the minds of the men serving under the banners of 'the Motte'. Some men had even taken to pretending they from White Harbour and trying their luck in that camp, or so Sigrid had heard.

She was small thing though, Ingun, barely five feet or so high. She had lovely long hair, a bright cheerful smile, and an impressive set of tits to go with it, but that was about as far as one could go, because, as already said, while she was fine woman, she also couldn't cook to save her life. Which was rather tragic really, considering her father had shipped her off with the 'Motte's baggage train, most assuredly in the hopes she might find a husband and leave home, and considering that she'd once again been assigned to their part of the camp, for the third week in a row.

"Hron! You dirty old miser," a bitingly cheerful and rather jovial sounding voice suddenly cried out. "-there ye' are."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sigrid saw Hron wince, mouthing "Fuck's sake", as he looked up witheringly at the source.

His curiously piped, Sigrid looked towards the sound of the voice and goggled.

Hron, he thought, looked little better, although his look was more akin to man who had swallowed a wasp whole, as it was still stinging him, and continued to do so, from the inside.

"Don't talk to 'im," Hron muttered sourly, his eyes shooting Sigrid a _look_. The same kind of _look_ he'd shot him when Sigrid had accidently dropped his sword during the charge at what the locals were now calling the Battle of the Whispering Woods. "-it'll just encourage 'im, and then 'e'll never piss off."

"Who is he?" Sigrid asked, his curiosity bubbling as the richly dressed man swaggered closer.

"A pest is what 'e is. A great big bloody pest."

"Hron! My friend, my cheerful, happy, robust Northern chum! How fare thee this fine Riverland morn, eh?"

Remotely, Sigrid thought he saw Hron scowl, but he couldn't be sure, so distracted was he by the man in front of him, _and what a man he was_.

He was no warrior for certain, judging by his clothes, and the lack of anything even remotely resembling chainmail, boiled leather or plate. Instead, he was bedecked in brightly coloured velvets and satins, ' _a proper little Southron'_ , as his da' would say.

0

Whatever response Hron had given, Sigrid knew not, though it did dim the newcomers smile a little.

"Come now," the lordly interloper chided good-naturedly, " -why so grim, my friend? This is a happy day, a glorious occasion of momentous proportions, no?"

Sigrid blinked and opened his mouth to ask why it was such a 'glorious occasion of momentous proportion', when-

"Sit down damn you, you're attracting attention," Hron grunted impatiently, pulling the gangly fool down onto a tree stump next to him.

Looking up from his seat, Sigrid blinked, again, because Hron was right, the newcomer was attracting attention.

Though few were up and about so early, most were still weaning themselves of the aftereffects of the festivities from the previous night, and waspishly, Sigrid felt a stab of irritation towards his father's 'friend' for kicking him awake and dragging him out here. _The bastard._

"Many thanks, Master Three-Toes, many thanks," the newcommer said with a flustered wheeze, before his eyes set upon Sigrid sharply. "Ho, ho, and who is this? A long-lost bastard of yours recently discovered? The orphaned son of a fallen comrade-in-arms you've taken 'neath your wing? Or perhaps he's-"

As the man continued to babble nonsense, Sigrid found gaping incredulously at the man. A _Bastard son of... wha?_

"That's Sigrid," Hron grunted simply.

"Ah," The very, very strange man said. "-and is he…?"

"I'm watching over 'im as a favor to 'is old man," Hron grumbled, pointedly shooting a beseeching look upon the heavens, though what he hoped to achieve from that Sigrid knew not. Although knowing Hron, Sigrid was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

"Well then," the colorfully dressed _riverlander_ cried, -because really, even Sigrid could tell the man was no Northerner, and he really doubted the man was a Westerlander, not that with kind of cheer. _Maybe he was from the Reach?_ "-I do believe fresh introductions are in order, hmm?"

Whatever retort Hron had been about to make was ran roughshod over however when the colourfully dressed man dramatically shot upwards from his stump with a flounce.

"My salutations good Sigrid, I," the man proclaimed grandly, flourishing what Sigrid could only imagine might be courtly bow in his direction. "-am the famous and well renowned Rhymer."

Sigrid just stared at the man.

Hron, however, scoffed, reaching down to his side and picked up a tankard of ale as he rolled his eyes. Sigrid thought he saw him mouth, ' _Here we fucking go_ ', but he couldn't be certain. Even if it was the kind of thing Hron would do.

"Rymund the Rhymer," the man clarified when no sign of recognition was forthcoming. "-the famous Bard?" he went on. "You know, _that_ Rymund the Rhymer, of the Stony Sept?"

"Nobody's fucking 'eard of you," Hron grumbled again, after another swig of his ale. "Now sit down or bugger off before you make a bigger arse of yoursen."

Watching the self-proclaimed 'Rhymer' deflate like a wilted flower, Sigrid bit back a laugh, swallowing the impulse to do so as he watched the bard flounce back down upon his stump with a rather defeated air about him.

"That," Rymund muttered, "was rude."

Hron ignored him, taking another swig from his tankard with a rather blithe, "True though" for good measure.

Sigrid smiled at the strange man amused. _The Bard_ , and distantly, he wondered if he was similar to the Skalds back home, those wandering storytellers and song-singers who regaled their audiences with dark tales of white-walkers and snarks and grumpkins.

 _What funny names for things these Southrons have_ , he thought bewildered, shaking his head.

"So," he said, amidst the awkward silence that had descended, ignoring the warning _look_ that Hron shot him. "Er, how exactly do you two know each other?"

Hron grumpted, sighing longsufferingly as ' _the Rhymer'_ perked up.

"Ah, now that is a tale my Northern friend! And what a tale it is. You see, it all started whe-"

"E was getting the shite kicked out of 'im," Hron interrupted, casting ' _the Bard_ ' a withering look.

Rymund however, was not to be dissuaded. "Now that, is somewhat inaccurate my friend. No, no, it all started, you see-

"It's pretty fucking accur-"

"- at the Battle of the Golden Tooth-"

 _The Golden Tooth?_

Sigrid shot Hron a questioning look. Hron frowned back at him, grunting.

"Listen 'ere you little dandy," Hron growled, pointing an accusing finger at the 'bard' before continuing. "Now's I don' know many things, but I know it wa' nowhere near a 'Golden Tooth' -whatever the buggery one o' them is _."_

"Anyway," the grizzled northerner went on, drawing another swig of his tankard. "E was getting the piss knocked out of him by a couple of Marq footmen last night-"

Rymund spluttered indignantly. "I was n-"

"E was," Hron growled, "-'e was on the ground, getting kicked seven fucking ways to his precious Seven."

"Anyways, I put a stop to tha', then 'e wouldn't bugger off for the rest o' the night, kept following me an' ol' Bloody Burt roun' the fires for the rest o' the night."

Sigrid thought about that for a second, and then another, before his curiosity finally got the better of him. "Whatcha do to get a hiding like tha'?"

Rymund reddened a little at the question, squirming uncomfortably as even Hron turned expectant eyes upon their 'guest' in interest.

"Ah, well," the Bard mumbled, a sheepish expression on his face. "I might have caused a little… offence, with my latest work."

"A 'little'?" Hron smirked.

"Well, it might have been a little… too 'on the nose', if you catch my meaning?"

Sigrid didn't, but he found himself nodding anway. Twas only polite after all.

"Ah, but where are my manners, where is that charming fellow… Burt, was it? I've not seen him since last night's revelries."

Sigrid reckoned, if the state he'd seen the man wander off in last night was any indication, that Bloody Burt was probably lying in a patch of undergrowth somewhere without his breeches, or that he'd probably fallen down an embankment and into a river… and then promptly drowned.

Having known the man all of three weeks, both were likely outcomes. Especially given what he now knew about 'Bloody' Burt.

Not that people talked about _that_. At least not openly, or ever really. Burt was rather sensitive about it… and a very big man. So… yeah.

"Probably still shitting up blood, so's I imagine."

At Hron's rather blunt statement, Sigrid gaped in mild horror, watching the blood drain from the Riverlander natives face as he processed what he'd heard.

"I-I beg your pardon?" the Bard spluttered.

"E's probably shitting up blood," Hron repeated.

"Shi-shitting… blood?"

Hron grunted affirmative, shooting the shocked southron a grim smile. "Why do you think we call 'im 'Bloody Burt'?" he asked rather morbidly.

"Well, I-I… is he alright?"

Hron shrugged, and took another swig of his ale before responding. "Aye, it'll pass, it alway does."

"It does?"

"Hmn."

At that, another silence descended upon the trio, a silence even more awkward than the last, and Sigrid found himself breathing a sigh of relief at the end of the rather morbid topic of 'Bloody' Burtrand 'Burt'.

Until Rymund opened his mouth. Again.

"So," he said slowly, almost hesitantly. "Is there any reason we're all sat out _here,_ instead of say, in the 'Mead Tent'? I hear that Forrester lordling's began rationing out the captured Lannister supplies until the higher ups make 'us' march out?"

Hron actually snorted, as he looked over at the southron Bard, a knowing little smile tugging at his lips.

"We're," he said, indicating himself and Sigrid. "-waiting."

Sigrid, for his part, frowned.

 _Waiting_ , he thought. Hron hadn't mentioned anything about waiting for something when he'd kicked him awake earlier. He'd done exactly as he'd done every day since their host had marched out under muster. _What are we-_

"What are we waiting for, then?"

Hron scowled at the Bard. Again. "We're," he said once more, indicating himself and Sigrid more aggressively. "-waiting. You're annoying."

Rymund waved him off, or just didn't pick up on Hron's aggressiveness. He went to open his mouth again, but Sigrid beat him to it. Barely.

"Then what are _we_ waiting for?"

"You'll -Seven Hells," Hron swore suddenly, his eyes widening as Sigrid blinked back at him in confusion.

 _What_ -?

"Looks like that Frew man was right, after all," Hron breathed, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Frew?" Rymund puzzled out loud. "I've never heard of no House Frew."

"You know the ones I mean," Hron scowled, taking a quick swig from his mug, his eyes never leaving their focus. "-the funny looking 'uns, them that look like ferrets."

Rymund scoffed. "He means 'the Freys," he said, before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Frews."

"Still sounds bloody daft to me, almost as daft as that fucking crest of theirs."

Rymund opened his mouth to retort, but Hron cut him off with a laugh.

"Don't look now lad, but I think the King's 'bout to 'ave a bad morning."

Taking note of the older mans unsubtle head nod, Sigrid turned his head curiously, and winced. Behind him, he heard another sharp intake of breath.

 _A bad morning indeed_ , he thought somewhat awestruck, watching as an armoured shieldmaiden stormed through the camp towards them, angrily, grumbling all the while.

"That's, that's the Lady Mormont, isn't it?" he heard Rymund ask. Nobody answered him.

"Where is he?" the younger, more attractive Lady Mormont demanded, hissing the last word dangerously at a poor footman who'd had the misfortune to cross her path.

"I-I, w-who milady?"

"The King," the enraged lady snapped, shaking the poor sod about like a sack of barley. Sigrid rather pitied him. "Is he in there?"

"I-I, I thin-"

With an irritated huff, Sigrid watched as the She-Bear of House Mormont released the harried looking infantryman with a shove and advanced on a new target.

"Frey!"

"What's goin' on?" Sigrid whispered quietly, flashing a curious look at Hron. The self-proclaimed Rhymer looked rather interested too.

Hron snorted amusedly at the pair of them, his eyes never trailing from the squirming youth slouching anxiously outside the opening of a rather nondescript tent across from them.

"Hron?"

"Hmn," the older man grunted, watching intently as the youth attempted to intercept the advancing woman, to no avail.

"Whats going on?" Sigrid pressed, his eyes flickering between Hron's amused stare, their interlopers impersonation of a cod, and the Lady Mormonts rather forceful first contact.

"Well lad," Hron started, wetting his lips as a smirk slowly dawned across his withered face. "Seems the King took to the celebrations a little too well last night."

Sigrid blinked.

"Couldn't find 'is own tent if you catch my meaning," the old warrior went on, his amusement at the situation completely and utterly evident for all to hear.

"The King's in there?" Sigrid croaked, his widening eyes flickering over to the innocuous tent across from them. "-in that tent?"

"Aye," Hron chortled gleefully, watching as the armoured woman bodily threw her obstructing opponent aside with a huff, the gangly youth stealing after her even as he attempted to regain his balance.

"A-and that's Lady Mormont's tent, isn't it?"

Hron's smirk widened. "It is," he agreed readily.

Rymunds face lit up. "Did they, er, you know…"

"No idea," Hron smirked again, and Sigrid found himself gaping in incredulity. "Way I see it," Hron went on. "-either 'e did, an she's not best pleased wi' 'ow it went, or 'e didn't, an' she's not best pleased 'bout tha'."

 _The King was mad_ , Sigrid thought with a awed sigh, completely and utterly mad, or maybe he was just fearless.

The rumours about Stark's and their Wolf's Blood must've been true, Sigrid thought, _why else would the King have-_

"What do you mean, 'What am I doing here', it's my tent!"

At the shrill screech that emanated from the 'Kings' tent, Sigrid's eyes widened an inch. Worriedly, he looked to Hron who snorted, shooting Sigrid a smirk as he did so. Rymund just looked enraptured, as if he'd unknowingly stumbled upon the greatest gift of the gods.

"One Gold Dragon says she throws him out on his arse, eh?"

Sigrid goggled. "T-the Kings life could be in danger and you want to gamble on it?" he hissed, casting furtive looks at the tent as the voices within started to rise. Again.

If Hron shared his concerns, Sigrid thought, he didn't show it. Instead, he shrugged nonchalantly.

"Easy lad, it's not like she's actually gonna bloody kill 'im," he grunted, casting an appraising eye at the tent. He paused, "Well she might maim 'im a little bit, any woman would, you know?"

Sigrid did not in fact know, but he figured Hron probably did. After all, he was-

"Wait," he said suddenly, as a thought occurred to him. "-w-where in the seven hells did you get a Gold Dragon?" he demanded hotly, his eyes narrowing as he started contemplating the question. Golden Dragons were rare at the very best of times, even rarer in the North, especially among the 'smallfolk', as the Highborn called them.

 _So where exactly had Hron gotten a_ -

"It's my tent!"

"You stole my tent!"

The outraged scream that ricocheted out from within the Mormont Heiress' tent silenced whatever thoughts Sigrid might've had regarding Hron's probably ill-gotten wealth, _If he actually did have a Gold Dragon._

"Found it."

"What?" Sigrid asked, his ears catching the nonchalant -the too nonchalant tone of Hron's response. "Where in the Seven did you find a Gold Dragon?"

"Well, it's not so much as I found it, so much as I 'liberated' it."

Sigrid gaped incredulously at him. Hron stared right back at him.

"You stole it?"

"Not stole. I liberated it."

"From where?"

"Who."

"From who?"

"Some shit of a Lannister Knight during the battle, 'e was wandering righ' past me like a bloody overstuffed goose when I bopped 'im on the 'ead wi' mi axe."

"You stole from a Knight?"

Hron sighed wearily, as if greatly disappointed in him, his free hand rising to the bridge of his nose in frustration. "S'not like he was going to need it anymore," he said gruffly.

"What?"

Hron looked over at their 'guest', who had, from somewhere, managed to produce a quill and sheaf of parchment, and was messily scribbling down _something_ as if his life depended on it.

"It's going to be a _masterpiece,_ " the man mumbled. "-a bloody _masterpiece_! The Wolf and the Maiden-Bear!"

"That's already a song," Hron scowled, still nursing his nose. "-you do know you can't write a bloody song that's already wrote, righ'?" he groused.

"Written," the frenzied man corrected, pointing the tip of his quill imperiously towards Hron. "Besides," he waved the two of them off. "-your thinking of the 'Bear and Maiden Fair, this is different! It's going to be a _masterpiece!_ "

"Like that one youse wrote about the 'Golden Too-"

"GET OUT OF MY BLOODY TENT!"

As if preceded by lightning, the enraged thunderclap of noise rocketed across their part of the camp, silencing Hron's mocking before he could finish.

Hastily, as if chased by one of the Others themself, the mountainous Lord of the Last Hearth barrelled out of the tent 'Kings' tent, a flushed expression on his face. Behind him ran another man, balding and somewhat portly, before the King himself stumbled on outwards.

Sigrid found himself gaping absurdly at the lot of them.

Across from him, he noted Hron crowing delightedly at the scene, his amusement at the apparent 'chaos' almost in sync with the Rhymers own evident glee. Although to be fair, the 'Rhymer' seemed more delighted by his 'bloody masterpiece' than anything else.

" _Three men and a maiden fair_ ," the mustachioed Riverlander sang, his quill never ceasing it's scribblings as he kept an unwavering eye on the proceedings before him.

Sigrid ignored him in favour of staring at _the King_ , and wasn't that a thought. A King, and not just any King, but the _King in the North!_ The first such King to bear the title in over three hundred years. It was amazing, and it was heartening, and it was-

" _-two short of a lovely… pair?_ No, no, no, that doesn't work," the Rhymer trailed off, mumbling to himself as Hron scowled.

Sigrid blocked the pair of them out, watching as _the King_ stumbled slightly midstep, his eyes closed as he attempted to right himself properly.

Behind him, the canvas of the tent he and his companions had emerged from rippled with the impact of something thrown at it.

Hron didn't seem to notice, nor did 'the Rhymer', who was busy singing, scribbling, and then disregarding the newest line of his 'masterpiece' over and over.

"Well," the giant of the Last Hearth rumbled with a laugh. "-that could have gone worse,"

With a discreet look at the tent behind them, and taking into account the angry, frustrated noises emerging out from within, Sigrid found himself agreeing with the man. Bear Islander's were a rough lot at the very best of times, and almost as bad as the Mountain Clans if given a chance.

 _It could have been so much worse_ , Sigrid thought. Not that he would ever say so. At least not out loud, and especially not to _them_.

The King, for his part, didn't seem to agree, not if the way his mouth started opening and closing was any indication.

" _-so wrathful was she, that madian most fair…"_

Ignoring Rymund's newest line, Sigrid amusedly watched out of the corner of his eye as Hron disgustedly pulled his attention back away from the Rhymer and towards that of the King and his…'councillors'?

"-ver does well to make a she-bear angry, Yer Grace."

Once again the King looked anything but agreeable. His mouth opened to respond…

...and then Hron's voice came out.

"Av a good night, Yer Grace?" he jeered loudly, raising his tankard in salute to the Kings back as he did so.

The immediate campground fell silent.

Sigrid froze, his face paling rapidly, as a horrified expression plastered itself firmly across it. The Rhymer too seemed to freeze, his scribblings halting in an instance as he too seemed to realise what had happened.

Wearily, and with the awful sensation of their imminent doom descending upon them, Sigrid, watched as the King tensed, froze, and then sighed tiredly.

" _Hron, what are you doing?_ " Sigrid found himself yelping, his voice a croaky strangled mess of hysteria as he ploughed on. " _-are you trying to get us eaten?_ "

Hron, who had either not meant for his jeering to be quite so loud, or had not quite fully recovered from his drinking the night afore, suddenly stiffened, his grin faltering slightly as he realised just what he'd done..

It was one thing to be thrown in the stocks after all. It was quite another to be fed to a great big bloody wolf, tales of the King's Direwolf's Umber Supper had spread far and wide after all, and every soldier, warrior and shield maiden under the banners now knew of it. It was not something to be taken lightly.

"Eaten," the King muttered quietly, rounding on the giant of a man in front of him. "Lord Umber, why do my men think their going to be eaten?"

Rymund chose that moment to choke on his own held breath.

 _We're doomed,_ Sigrid thought, watching as the Rhymer slapped a hand over his eyes in equal disbelief to his own _._ _We're going to be eaten by a fucking overgrown dog and it's all Hron's fault-_

As the Lord of the Last Hearth frowned at the Kings question, Sigrid felt himself flush with embarrassment.

Although to be fair, Hron's reaction made him and 'Rymund' look positively composed.

At the mention of the giant man's name, Hron had shot a not so discreet look at the giant's hands, then paled, and then proceeded to hide his mounting horror behind his tankard as he drew another great pull. Although whether it was to steady his courage or drown his fear, Sigrid knew not.

"Ah, s-so s-sorry milord," Sigrid stammered, grasping for any explanation that might save their necks from Hron's particular brand of lunacy. "-it's just, them's the rumours goin 'round. A-about been eaten, that is."

As the King turned to face them, his three companions looking equally baffled as they followed, Sigrid noticed that rather than the anger he had expected, the King just looked even more confused.

"My men think I eat people?" he asked flabbergasted, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find his words.

Sigrid paled even further. _Old Ones_ , he thought, _we're dead. We're gonna be eaten by a great big bloody_ -

"N-not y-you personally milord," Rymund then piped up, his blue eyes peeking out between the fingers of his hand as he stared hauntingly off to the side, trembling.

The King, despite his apparent confusion, decided to follow his line of sight, as did Sigrid. Before he wished he really hadn't.

 _There it is_ , he thought grimly, _the Direwolf,_ and in some small distant part of his mind, Sigrid noted it was a big bloody beast. Much bigger than he'd initially expected. Almost the size of a small pony really.

Which wasn't at all reassuring, not even a little bit, and strangely enough, Sigrid suspected the King might actually agree with him, judging by the grimace he wore at the sight of his beast.

The silence between the two groups stretched on, the awkwardness of it all taking a step behind the tenseness of the situation. The Direwolf didn't move.

Instead, it seemed to be staring at them, its sickly yellow eyes fixed firmly on their target. Sigrid didn't move, he daren't move, not even to try and shush the whimpering noises the 'bard' behind him was making.

Strangely enough however, on a second glance at the King, Sigrid noticed he looked tenser than ever, his posture ramrod straight as his wolf continued its… _scrutiny?_

"I-I, Is it gone yet?"

"N-no," Sigrid squeaked, flinching despite his best efforts as the _bloody great beast_ flicked it's gaze away from the King and back towards them.

"I-I, is it going to eat us?"

Nobody answered the Bard. Nobody really wanted to, lest the beast suddenly decide it was done being nice and attack, and then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, the wretched thing _sniffed_ disdainfully, huffing a breath before prowling off with nary a wit for the terror it had left in its wake.

"Well", Lord Umber grumbled, his eyes trailing the retreating beasts hind with suspicion. "That was odd."

Nobody disagreed with the man. Although to be fair, Sigrid thought, none of them were really experts on the behavior of Direwolves. At least not in this century.

"He does that," the King sighed in explanation, massaging the bridge of his nose tiredly as he did so.

"Oh aye, seem to remember 'im been a bit more agreeable though?"

As the King looked up at the giant of Umber's question, Sigrid thought he looked rather pained. Almost sheepish really.

"We had a… falling out, of sorts."

The Greatjon frowned deeply, his beard twitching in consternation as he, like Sigrid, tried to puzzle out the meaning behind the King's words.

"A falling out, Yer Grace?"

"Mmn, he didn't like the man i've become."

Lord Umber blinked. As did Sigrid, and Hron -whose hand and tankard was still shaking fearfully.

Nobody asked the question that they all so obviously wanted to, however, and in his own opinion, Sigrid rather thought that they, like him, didn't actually know what question it was that they wanted to ask.

Surprisingly enough though, it was the balding and rather portly looking northerner -a White Harbor native if ever there was one, who asked the question none in their little group seemed capable of.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but… I'm not sure I understand?"

The King snorted mirthlessly. "Nor I, my good Maester, give me a few weeks though and i'll get back to you."

"I-Is, is it gone? The beast… I-Is it g-gone?"

Flicking his eyes away from the rotund Maester, the King sighed, again, glancing instead at the still peeping 'Rhymer', who had yet to remove his hand from atop his face.

"Aye," the King said. "-he's gone."

With a murmured ' _Thank the Seven_ ', and some baffling little hand gesture in the vaguest shape of a star, the 'Rhymer' relaxed a little, his other hand lowering from his ashen face slowly, almost hesitantly.

"Tis a fearsome beast that, if you don't mind me saying so milord," he said with a wheeze, visibly struggling to pull himself back together.

Hron snorted contemptuously at the 'Bard'. "Not fucking natural is what youse mean-"

"Have some fucking respect man, that's yer King yer speaking to! 'E's a King, not a Lord!"

At Lord Umber's sudden outburst, Hron paled again, his spine stiffening in terror as he dropped his near empty tankard to the ground with a 'thud'.

In another situation, Sigrid might've even laughed, but now was not the time for that, not when they might very well end up at the flogging posts for Hron's rather blatant disrespect towards their Lo- _King._

Or worse yet, the youngest of clan Long-mane thought with a shudder, they could find themselves assigned to Ingun's service, and perhaps eventually even be found guilty of aiding in the biggest mass poisoning in the North's history.

Truthfully, Sigrid wasn't quite sure which would be worse, and that was saying something.

Luckily, before he could dwell on that particular thought any further, the King spoke up.

"Ah, Lord Umber," he drawled slowly, shooting the glowering Lord of the Last Hearth an _amused_ -look? "How nice of you to defend my honour now the danger has passed."

"Well, I… that is, well, yer see yer Grace-"

"Never mind all that," the King sniped impatiently, sighing as the rumbling of his stomach cut him short. Tiredly, almost despondently, he cast a furtive look around at his surroundings, at the rows upon rows of tents, at the curiously staring bypassers, _at them_.

"You wouldn't happen to have any food on you, would you?" he asked with a curious glance at Sigrid. "My squire's lost my tent you see," he said with a grimace. "-and it's looking like it might be a bit of long walk back to it, providing it's still in one piece…"

Sigrid shot a worried look at the tipped over bowl by his feet and blanched. Across from him, Sigrid saw Hron wince, while the rat-faced boy near the opening of the angry Lady Mormont's tent let out a whimpering noise all of his own.

 _If this was their 'King'_ , Sigrid thought rather suddenly, shooting the bowl by his feet a sudden, final foreboding look, _then he was either very, very brave, or very, very foolish…_

 _...and quite possibly mad to boot..._

His father had been right: he should have stayed at home.

-oo00oo-

* * *

 **A/N:**

Well… I bolloxed up on my 'update' schedule, although in my defence, I did forewarn you. I'm shit with deadlines. Utterly and completely.

Although I do have a good-ish reason this time, I swear! You see, I've recently started reading the 'Wheel of Time' series by 'Robert Jordan', and it may have gotten a little out of hand, you know, consuming my every waking spare minute (including my usual 'writing time'). But that's over now, hopefully. I've kind of burned myself out with the whole 'reading a fourteen book high fantasy series' as fast as I can, so i'm taking a bit of a break from it... for the moment, and am now writing once again.

Anywho, as mentioned before in the previous authors note, this was originally meant to be part of chapter two but was cut out since I could never quite manage to make it flow right with the rest of the chapter.

[The proper] Chapter Three is already underway and i'm determined to *try* and update again before Christmas, consider it a present from me to you, my beloved readers.

Also, I'd like to take this chance to thank all the people who've reviewed, favorited or chose to 'follow' this work of 'fanfiction' so far. It's been rather surprising the support and interest expressed in this so far and I realised I'd not yet expressed my gratitude for your support… so thanks!

Really, it's heartening, so thank you!


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